


Future blog

by NovaNara



Category: Mirai Nikki | Future Diary, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bloodplay, ELECTRO...NOT SURE IF PLAY OR MAYBE STRAIGHT UP TORTURE HONESTLY, F/F, F/M, Graphic Torture, M/M, No Safeword, Torture, madness abounds, not quite crossover - if crossover means characters from both fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 45
Words: 77,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Very AU. BBC!Sherlock's whole cast placed in Mirai Nikki universe.  Of course, I do not follow exactly Mirai Nikki's plot, otherwise you'd find spoilers on wiki! <br/>After Afganistan, John has to face just the end of the world. Easy peasy, right?  ;-)  <br/>Will have a bit of everything and everyone. <br/>No characters from Mirai Nikki appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [am1thirteen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/am1thirteen/gifts).



_A.N. The kindred soul am1thirteen acquainted me with the beautiful Mirai Nikki manga, and suggested playing with its plot. I eagerly agreed. She agreed to beta this for me, so if I don't go off the deep end in any way credit goes to her. Of course, any lasting error/ flaw is mine._

 

_Disclaimer: Mirai Nikki/Future Diary's storyline belongs to Sakae Esuno sensei, Dr. John Watson and the rest of the cast to Arthur Conan Doyle and/or to the BBC. I just mess with both._

  
  


Prologue

 

Nobody is really an atheist in war. Everyone needs some sort of God to pray to, whoever He/She may be. John Watson is special though, because said gods do not usually entertain their believers when they dream (or daydream, for the matter). Neither do they send little witty imp-like helpers to point out useful things like 'is that light bouncing off a rifle, what do you think, Johnny?'.

John keeps silent about all that. He's mad, madder than a hatter in truth, he knows. He has to be. As long as Mormor (that's the imp's name, and yes, it's ridiculous – but the thing would hold the grudge of the century if he remarked on that) helps him stay alive, who cares which form his brain chooses to inform the larger, supposedly rational part of him that danger is _right there_? Honestly, John would commit himself into the nearest asylum if whenever, wherever his hallucinations interfered with his work as an army surgeon. His brothers in arms deserve nothing but the best. But he gives them the best. He _is_ the best. Anytime he has to disinfect, stitch, remove bullets, or generally heal, the mirages leave him alone...and he has many, many grateful friends he has saved. Asylum has never looked less appealing.

His dreams of Dyaus, God of Space and Time and Causality (sometimes John jokes he must be a Time Lord, but he has seen no Tardis yet), began when he was deployed to the front line. As a medic, John had seen worse ways to cope with the stress. Humongous masked human-shaped God saying you were interesting and he was feeling _playful_? Not so bad.

Which is why, when he does get shot, John feels unreasonably _betrayed_ (yes, he's mad, but that's already established). They have not played yet, not anything remotely engaging, and where the _fuck_ is Mormor when John needs help, and he can't die now. Dyaus won't let him die...will he? _Please God, let me live._

 


	2. The beige bedsit of doom

_Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me still._

 

 

Chapter 1: The beige bedsit of doom

 

“Come on now, Johnny. Don't sulk!” the imp exhorted, popping out of the blue in John's  London dwelling.

'Oh great. He comes around now' John thought. Might as well vent out.

“Don't sulk? Don't _sulk_? Christ, look around. I had a life back there. Now I have a beige bedsit. Beige coverlet, beige curtains, beige walls, beige carpet. Even this _place_ knows my life is shit!” he yelled, glaring.

“You want to complain? Bring it up to Dyaus. He's the boss,” Mormor replied, clearly annoyed.

_He would._

And just like that, John somehow found himself before his own private god, in an over-dimensioned not-quite-temple. Pillars abounded, anyway.

“So, how does civilian life agree with you, Johnny?” Dyaus inquired conversationally.

“Not much of a god if you don't know it doesn't,” John growled.

“Well, we'll have to make our own entertainment then, won't we?” the god answered, his smirk evident even behind the mask. “By the way...why didn't you bring us up to your shrink?” he added.

“I don't have that many social relations here, if you haven't noticed. Not eager to lose your company too, even if it's not top quality. And _I_ wouldn't need to be entertained if you and your miniature follower didn't fail me when I needed you,” John sharply replied.

“Relax a bit, boy. Being so bitter can't be good for your health. We're about to get to bigger and better things, Johnny, I promise. We didn't fail – we just allowed you to be removed from that entirely too out of the way environment.” the deity revealed. Much too nonchalant for the other party's liking.

“You deserted me on _purpose_?” the doctor ground out, outraged.

“You'll like it here. Just wait and see. Are you going to write that blog like Ella suggested?” Dyaus asked airily.

“I'll have to, won't I?” John said, tiredly. It was useless to keep arguing with his hallucination, after all.

“And what do you plan to write?” the god wondered, curious.     

_Dyaus wasn't so trite before. Civilian life was detrimental to his mirages too._

“I honestly have no idea. Since my life is empty now, thanks to _someone_ , I guess I'll have to tell about people I meet, scenes I come across...something must be happening somewhere. It's London, after all,” he surmised.

And then Dyaus went and shifted his mood. A perfect one hundred and eighty. Oh well, he did that sometimes.

“You know Johnny, you've been awfully _rude_ tonight. It hurts my _feelings_. I understand why, of course. You don't believe in me anymore. Well, I'll just have to prove myself, won't I? You will properly apologize after, won't you, Johnny? I'd _hate_ to have to reconsider the list of my favourites,” he complained and whined and threatened all in the same breath. John had never known anyone in real life who could pull it off.

“I'd like to see you try,” he replied cheekily. Goading your own hallucinations on was highly entertaining at least (if decidedly not healthy).

“That phone of yours has got internet connection, yes? That's what I'll do. There will be a website you will only be able to access from there: your blog. I will just write it for you... a bit in advance. It will let you know the future. Which may be useful, or amusing, or annoying, I guess... but it will definitely prove that I'm not a figment of your imagination,” the god announced.

“Yeah, well, sure. Please do,” John agreed. Wasn't his brain coming up with the most ridiculous fantasies right now?

“Do take care of the phone, John. You've seen enough Dr. Who to not be sloppy with things that are not totally working on your same timeline, didn't you?” Dyaus recommended as a parting shot.

_As if he would be heedless of it anyway. The phone was the latest model, and as good as new. He wasn't going to wreck it, of all his worldly possessions._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I claim this chapter's title. Please mention me if you use the sentence. I hope it rolls on your tongue as smoothly as it does on mine.


	3. Memorable meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not mine. Obviously. ;-)

John received a text from an unknown number the next day, as soon as he woke up. It contained a link... which sent him to his blog. He fought the sudden panic that washed over him. Ok, his mental condition was clearly deteriorating fast. He must have written the post down sometime last night and erased the memory of it. But how had he managed to have this text sent now? Because the alternative...it was simply impossible. Wasn't it? Oh well...he'd worry over that in the future. Like the next appointment with Ella. Now he needed to get into gear, start searching for work – his army pension was enough for nothing – and prove this entry was the byproduct of his addled mind, not...the future. 

Only that it was. When John met Mike Stamford – on the park bench where he was _supposed_ to be, according to his blog – he managed not to look too startled. Surprised, yes, but hey, he'd just casually met an old mate. He was curt about Afghanistan, but honestly, it did no one any good lingering over what happened there. He brought up his lack of income, instead. After all, the blog – which he'd only skimmed – said Mike would help him with that.This could be his litmus test. 

Mike seemed eager to help. “Why don't you apply at Bart's? Sarah, the boss, is a good woman, I'm sure she'll find you something...and I work there too, so when I say she's amenable to any reasonable request – most of the time – I'm speaking from experience,” he proposed.

John agreed. And here he was, following Stamford to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, half hopeful and half dreading what might happen (because if things went right, what did it _entail_?). And then he met dr. Sawyer ( _Sarah_ ). Mike added his praises to John’s brilliant cv, which was nice of him. Sarah concluded: “Of course, good doctors are always welcome. You can start with a bit of locum work. With its flexible hours, you can take your time to settle down. Think of it as a probation session. As soon as a vacancy opens up, I’ll see what I can do”.

He was properly grateful, and refrained from saying what was in his mind. _'I don't need time to settle down. I need to keep busy. For my sanity’s sake.’_

His stroll, not-unexpected meeting and subsequent job interview at Bart’s had covered the whole morning. Afterwards Mike suggested stopping by the hospital's cafeteria. Well, why not? 

John was even happier when a pretty girl with a ponytail waved them over. 

“Molly, our pathologist; the one you'll like to be around, your patients not so much,” Stamford said by way of introduction.

“Please tell me you lead the campaign for this hospital’s Body Donation Program. Because you definitely should. I bet your presence alone can convince a lot of people to donate their body to science,” John pleaded. She blushed, very prettily too; pity her fiancé joined them right then. 

'Jim from IT', with the musical Irish lilt and the very considerate attitude toward Molly, was an alright bloke, John decided. A job, (old and) new friends...his life looked decidedly less bleak. The  napkin with the phone number which magically popped out next to his plate was just the icing on the cake. He pocketed it quietly and sent the cute waitress a big smile.

When he called the number, that same evening, and heard the answering voice, his first thought was _no more skimming the blog!_

“Jim?” John asked anyway. 

“Yes, Johnny,” Jim...purred? No, wait, the line must be disturbed. 

“Why did you slip me your number?” John inquired deliberately. 

“Because I wanted you to call me, don't be an idiot, John!” Jim reproached, entirely too harshly.

“What for?” John was just hoping he had misinterpreted it all. 

“Do not make me say the obvious,Johnny. It’s so _tedious_!” Jim quipped. 

“No wait...you're engaged!” 

“Didn't think it was a problem...” Jim sighed. “Let me explain in person, please.”

The sharp rapping at his door (and _how_ was Jim inside his condo, to begin with?) did not startle John. It did not. He squared his shoulders and opened the damn door. 

Jim kind of glided around him and inside the room. Completely at ease there. “Look, it's simple. We're not engaged. The whole thing is a ruse. Molly is after this jerk – gorgeous, I'll give you that – and asked my help to make him jealous. Honestly, he's more likely to get jealous _of_ her than _about_ her, but I haven't the heart to break it out to her.”

“Oh,” the doctor uttered quietly. At least Jim wasn't some sort of cheating bastard. It was nice to know. _Wait, John Hamish Watson! Get your priorities straight!_ “Jim...how did you find me? I'm sure I've not told you my address.”

“I might have stalked you. A tiny bit,” he confessed boldly. Smiling even. 

_Stalked and I didn't notice? Fuck!_

“Ok...I should probably have started with this, but...sorry Jim, I'm. Not. Gay,” John replied. He _had_ been saying things backwards. 

“Oh, Johnny...I know,” Jim quipped back, grinning. 

“You do?” John shouted. 

“You were flirting with Molly when I came in. It doesn't take a genius!” Jim hissed back, dramatically rolling his eyes. “You said nothing about being bi, though,” he added with a positively wicked smirk. 

“Don't bloody nitpick about my words!” John growled. “Look, Jim, I'll say it clear and simple for you, ok? I. Am. Not. Interested. Go stalk someone else.”

Jim's face crumbled. There was no other way to describe it. John didn't even try to resist the urge to apologize: “...Sorry about the last bit. It was rude, but...”.

And then Jim was grinning (did the man come with a fucking _switch_?) and said: “It's ok, Johnny. I love being able to get a rise out of you. And I do love a challenge!”. Then he swaggered out of the room. 

(And John wasn't gaping. He wasn't.)  


	4. On the usefulness of labs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm Italian, not Japanese nor English. So how could I own Mirai Nikki or Sherlock?

John had promised himself not to skim the blog over anymore. But going to his blog the day after (and wasn't it a bit odd that Dyaus hadn't been around last night?) and finding its last words were DEAD END in huge capitals was kind of distracting.

Reading that the serial killer he'd heard from the news, the strangler called Golem because his hands' imprints made him look like some kind of giant (if he wasn't completely disproportionate) would make John his next victim was...unsettling. But John was a soldier, and now he had intel on his foe.

Of course, first instinct had been avoidance...but the blog said Golem tailed him after work for a little while, before making his move, and what would happen if John wasn't there? If Golem hunted around the hospital, without John he could choose to prey on Mike, or Molly, or...anyone, really. At least John had been trained to fight. If only he had not given his gun back, leaving Afghanistan!

To get a new firearm now he needed a certificate, one that would require more time than he had. And he couldn't explain why he needed it in haste, for the same reason he couldn't tip the police about the killer presence. His source of information, his justification, was simply unbelievable. Oh, well. He could grab a scalpel at work, he supposed. He was going to prove the blog wrong...or he was at least making damn sure Golem wouldn’t be fit enough to hunt again for a good while.

The day passed in a blur, or at least that was his impression. When his personal stalker – in a stolen lab coat – accosted John when he made his way to the exit, the doctor barked: “Not today, Jim. Really. Find some other company”.

“I know what I'm doing, Johnny. Come just a second,” he replied, manoeuvring John in a supply closet before the latter asked himself how he'd been persuaded. A ping from John's phone went utterly ignored.

“Look,” Jim ordered, whipping out his own phone and showing...a blog. A stalker's blog, if you wanted to call it that, full of updates about John, what he was doing and with whom and whatever else you could want to know.A glaring DEAD END could be seen as the last entry of the blog.

“I know what I'm getting into, _doctor_ Watson. And I'm not sending you out there without backup!” Jim declared.

Which still should not make dragging a...computer expert...into this the right thing to do, but the words were so _achingly_ familiar (how many times did his Major say exactly that?) John had all but marched out of the room, Jim falling into easy step beside him.

Jim even managed to fake conversation, when they were out of the hospital. “I've been down to Molly’s place. She let me play around in the lab. Honestly can't see why you didn't pop in for a minute.”

“Yeah, well...I have been busy.” John's eyes were scanning the crowd, because a fucking giant should be easy to spot. And there he was...John tensed up upon seeing the killer behind him, but first priority was drawing him away from other people. If he had to face this man, better sooner than later. He was going to duck in an alley, when Jim pulled on his arm. Hard.

“What are you doing?” John hissed.

“Changing the future,” Jim whispered back, leading them to a different alley. Sure enough, a text   notified them Jim's blog had been updated. _Modified_. “Well, not enough,” he noted, with a grimace at the DEAD END still very much there. But at least it told him that the blog was not set in stone. It was comforting. Actually, Jim's disrupting influence might be exactly what John needed.

Golem was still following them, leisurely, like an overgrown cat who had just found two amusing mice.

John let Jim lead the way, and when his new friend – after turning a sharp angle – sprinted in a mad run and entered a rundown building, he followed easily. A text to John's phone informed them losing the killer wouldn’t be quite so easy. Oh well. Going back into the open would surely not help, so they raced through the edifice, trying to find a spot that would offer a tactic advantage. No hiding place they passed guaranteed a successful sneak attack though, according to their blogs. And Golem had reached the entrance, heavy footfalls now quicker in pursuit. Games were off.

“The roof!” Jim whispered, sounding more enthusiastic than scared. John wanted to object, because they would have nowhere else to go, no cover...but he'd never been good at resisting Jim. John would have protested at Jim leading them way too close to the edge, but the man said: “I've got a plan!”, which was more than John could claim at the moment, running as he was on adrenaline and battle-honed instinct. Jim hurriedly explained his idea, risky and crazy and perhaps feasible.

Then Golem appeared...eyes fixed on his phone, before looking at them with predatory eyes and a smirk filled with entirely too much teeth.

“Plan B!” Jim exclaimed gaily.

_What plan B?_

The clearly hand-built bomb appeared in John's hands (did Jim keep it in his bloody _pocket_?) and he threw it to the (other) madman out of sheer reflex. His aim was true as ever, and bits of Golem should have littered the roof (and perhaps the underlying road). Instead, a black hole appeared and swallowed the body (parts) up. As if the day hadn’t been weird enough.

“Well, that was...convenient,” John remarked, while texts came to notify them of the averted dead end. Bit late, that.

“Convenient?” Jim echoed amusedly.

“No need to explain the dead body, not to mention the bomb. Might be difficult to convince the police it was purely self-defence and we just happened to have one handy,” he replied. The mental image was so ridiculous he chuckled softly.

Then realization caught up. “This was you 'playing in the lab', wasn't it? God Jim, you could have blown _Molly_ up. You could have blown _us_ up, actually I have no idea why that didn't happen,” the doctor berated.

“Of course it was, and I didn't, did I?” Jim bit back sharply. “It would never happen in the lab, I'm no _idiot_ John. Outside...well, accidents happen, but you were going to die anyway. Might as well occur because of me. Following someone else's script is so _unbearable_.”

John had no idea what to feel anymore. He'd been grateful (and perhaps a tiny bit of affection had tried to sneak on its wake), but this was decidedly worrying. And scary. And if he told anyone he was scared of _Jim_ , they'd laugh at him, but they hadn't seen this.

Jim waved away the whole discussion, and added thoughtfully: “At least we know how we'll go.”

“Sorry, what?”

“He must have had a future blog too, Johnny. It explains why hiding places were useless, and why he checked his phone then. He must have been updated about the plan I had told you. Hence, at the very least we don't need to worry about funeral expenses. We won't have one,” Jim explained, looking like it was a chore to do so.

“Oh. It makes sense. Not that I did, you know – worry about that. More about _living_ expenses. And...thank you, I guess. I would not have anything at all to worry about without you,” John replied. However he did feel, Jim deserved the thanks.

John's daily quota of weird hadn't been met yet, however.

They had just left the building, when Jim's lips pursed in annoyance. A dark-haired man with a long coat was beelining for them. “Molly's crush,” Jim informed him in a whisper.

“Have you seen a seven foot tall, Caucasian male, of middle European origin, no companions?” the man asked all in a breath.

“Why?” John croaked out.

“He's the Golem. He doesn't hunt randomly, he has a pattern  for both timing and areas, I've worked it out. He must be around here now, he _must_ be. I know,” he stated, giving John what felt like a dissecting look.

John's thought is _hope the bloke has a gun, 'cause otherwise he's suicidal to seek the killer out, and having a suicidal crush must be a pain._

“Well we haven't. Otherwise we wouldn't be alive, right? Nothing and no-one around to stop him from killing, and he's already taken more than a victim in one go,” Jim answered acidly.

That was enough to send him off. Like a bullet.

“You didn't tell me Molly's crush was a policeman,” John remarked.

“Oh, he isn't. He _plays_ detective. Why the police indulge him and feeds him a few cases' details, according to Molly, I don't know,” Jim revealed.

“I don't think he plays much. He was here, wasn't he? And he said he worked it out,” the doctor automatically defended.

“Do I have to finally get jealous of him, Johnny?” Jim replied, a sudden dark aura around him.

“Don't be an _idiot_ , Jim!” John quipped. “I. Am. Not. Gay. Remember?” he sighed.  

  
  
  



	5. The rules of the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine, obviously.

One would have thought the day had been eventful enough. Dyaus clearly did not concur. The moment John's eyes closed, Mormor was there. 

“Your mind wasn't quiet enough for me to get your attention at all until now! You'll be late, John!” he reproached. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“We're going to have a big meeting, you don't want to miss the rules, do you? How will you play otherwise?” the imp enquired, all the while tugging on John's arm. 

John was swiftly dragged in front of his God. Unlike the usual pattern, John was lead in a corridor and ordered to stand inside an exedra, a heavy curtain hiding him. He could still make out his God's outline, sitting on a throne, but nothing more. 

“All of the players are finally here” Dyaus' voice boomed “well, not exactly, but that's only because someone got overeager and started the game before the referee said so.” The god sounded mildly amused. 

“You all know me. I'm the god of space, time and causality. Despite of whatever delusions you may have entertained, I'm not eternal. Mine is hard work, and I'm out of energy. Sadly, I can't just retire. Does someone know what causality unravelling would entail?” he asked, reminding John very much of his physics teacher. 

One hesitant voice answered: “The end of the world...”. 

“Exactly,” Dyaus agreed. “Now, as I said, I can't really go on. A month is the most my powers will hold on. So, it's either let the world end or find an heir. You're interesting people, and have been chosen in the first headhunt as eligible. To spice the situation up a bit, the actual next God's selection will take the term headhunt much more literally.”

“What?” someone screeched. 

_'It's the end of the world. Just the end of the world. And I've been chosen to become a possible God. I never sent any applications for that!'_ went through John's mind on a loop. 

“Don't make me repeat myself,” Dyaus lashed out “you won't last long if you can't even understand this. I'll make it simple: there are currently eleven of you. Everyone has been granted one future blog, suitable to his disposition. To become God, you have to get rid of the competition. Or destroy the phone from which they access their blog.”

_That probably amounts to the same thing,_ John assumed. 

“Which is why you're currently visually impaired. If you knew who constitutes the competition, we'd lose all finesse and the game would be infinitely boring, not to mention short. Now, to make it fair, the moment you become the target of another player, you will receive a warning. Your blog will read DEAD END. If it disappears, you're safe again... _for the moment_ ” the God stated, entirely too pleased with himself.

“How are we supposed to find the other participants?” a male voice asked.

“Use your brain, if you have one” Dyaus bit back. “Your blog too, of course...but anything is fair game, really. Be _entertaining_ , will you? If you win, you'll appreciate the need for some amusement. And we're already one player short.”

“Will we know about the game's progress? How many people are still out there?” This time, it was a voice smooth as silk. 

“If I'm in the mood for it, I might update you. Call for another meeting perhaps. But don't count on it. No getting the others to do your work and coming out of hiding when we're down to one person only, miss. That would be too easy,” the god scolded.

“Who will be the hardest one to take down, in your opinion?” Definitely a male, rumbling like a big cat, and not as in an overfed, domestic one.

“Finally someone who _wants_ to play! My bet? Number one, of course. There's a reason I've assigned him that number...and after all, he took down number three and averted his own dead end before he even knew about this game,” Dyaus stated. Even beyond the curtain and the mask, it was evident he was beaming.

_Thanks for the vote of confidence, but you couldn't point someone else out as target to the overeager predator in the next corner, could you, Dyaus?_ John seethed internally. _Then again, if he has assigned the numbers according to how likely we are to survive, and I've already taken down three...Oh well,_ _ **I**_ _have is not quite exact, is it? Who knows which number is Jim? It would be interesting to know. Wait wait, does this mean I'm meant to kill Jim too, along the way? Unless I get killed first, of course. He may be a stalker, but that's a bit harsh of a punishment, isn't it? He helped me, after all. Saved my bloody life. Oh fuck, he_ _ **knows**_ _I have a blog. Stalker or not stalker, Jim will probably kill me first thing tomorrow, or at least try to. The man has no compunction fabricating bloody bombs. Let's just hope he has the common sense to resolve this thing between us in some quiet place. It's in his interest too not to involve anyone else or cause collateral damage, right? I mean, we don't leave evidence behind apparently, but if he goes for the same method and hurts someone there will be questions. Then again, he probably won't go for the same modus operandi. He's a computer geek, after all, and that means he must be quite clever, right? Oh god. I'm working myself into a panic attack, aren't I?_

John was pulled out of sleep, Dyaus' meeting and his own thoughts by the loud beep of an incoming text. He read: 'Lets team up. I won't allow you to be killed by anyone else, I swear, and we can win. We already did once. We will be the last ones standing, and then discuss our choices. Sweet dreams – JM'.

He replied his compliance, because everything Jim said was true, and however disturbing 'killed _by anyone else_ ' looked (did it mean Jim _would_ kill him in the end?), having an ally in this madness, even a temporary one, wasn't something to casually turn down. 

Meanwhile, at Dyaus' lair... 

The god had dismissed the other players quickly (because, really, what else was there to say?) and now he gazed severely at his servant. 

“Remind me again why I allowed you to select a few of the participants, among all of my followers.”

“Because you like to be surprised, as impossible as it is,” the imp answered. 

“I can't say I'm satisfied with what I saw. What's the point with number seven? Did you hear what the man asked?” Dyaus wondered, mildly disgusted. 

“Any good story needs a bit of comic relief. I can't say I'll bet a false dime on that number myself. But you liked number nine,” Mormor stated nonchalantly. 

“More like he liked me – or the game. Which is indeed refreshing,” the god admitted. “That one is a decent choice.”

“Ah, but he's not the one I bet on. At least for the God position,” the imp replied.

“And who would that be?” Dyaus asked, curious.

“Eleven. It wouldn't be that big of a change for him, and I have given him quite the trump card,” Mormor revealed. 

“I'm letting you run too many things now that I tire easily. I'm going to be very not pleased if he cheats his way to win, ” the god grumbled. 

“Nothing outside the rules, I promise. Not that you set many of those,” Mormor quipped back.

“Well, hard to be surprised when their hands are severely tied. Anyway, _what_ do you bet on Nine for?” Dyaus wondered. 

“To replace your favourite. I've tried to consider your preferences choosing him. Honestly, number one just feels so _ordinary_ to me. I can't fathom why you're fixated on him. Do take a look at what the other players do, before deciding who you root for, will you?” the imp admitted. 

“Why should I change my decision? If you can't see number one's charm I can only pity your blindness,” Dyaus said.

“Because seeing you with your doctor I'm wondering why don't you go by Master instead of God. Anyway, I am not saying you _have to_ forsake him. Just keep an open mind for a bit. But if you don't want to...your loss. Or gain. Or whatever. Be happy,” Mormor retorted. 

“Oh, but I _plan_ to be.”       


	6. John's first time (being deduced)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: When I do buy the rights to Sherlock or Mirai Nikki I'll let you know, ok? Still didn't.
> 
> A.N. Ok, I know, I twisted and turned and upended this until the thing is barely recognizable and perhaps OOC (not sure about it). I'd apologize, but that's the point of an AU, isn't it?

The following day passed surprisingly quietly. Or not so surprisingly: the only one who knew John had a future blog was in league with him, after all. For now. Having just been made a target, John was still thrumming with hyper-awareness, no matter how reassuring his blog was. 

He had half a good reason anyway not to relax: the evening would bring one annoying visitor. At least having expected him coming (thanks to the blog, obviously) meant John had tea ready. Hearing the bell, John decided he needed to talk to his fellow residents about having the condo's door open at all times (how did everyone pop up right in front of his door otherwise?). It wasn't safe (and they couldn't know how much). He greeted the man with a guarded smile. How would Molly's crush act? The blog only gave sparse details, and those were enough to keep him on edge. 

“And you are?” he asked. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man answered, _very_ quickly flashing a police ID. 

“Jim said you weren't police,” he remarked, surprised. 

“I collaborate with them,” Sherlock replied sharply. 

' _This still doesn't make you a policeman, so why_ _do_ _you have that?_ ' John thought. 

“Jim?” the man queried then. 

“Jim from IT at the hospital; he was with me yesterday,” John answered. _Must tell Molly operation 'making him jealous' is a total failure; Jim doesn't even register on his radar._ “Tea?” he offered.

That apparently did not register on Sherlock's radar too, because next thing he said was, “Yesterday you said why.”

John decided to bring him a cup anyway. He needed a few moments of tactical retreat if small talk was over. When Sherlock wordlessly accepted it, he had chosen his line. “Why to what?” Play idiot and gain time. 

“I asked if you'd seen someone, and you didn't answer yes or no. You said why. Ergo you know something.”

“Or I was just curious,” John countered. 

“You weren't. You were tense; still are in fact. You aren't Golem's accomplice. The evidence suggests that he was working alone,also he'd have profited from his help before if he had one. But you know something. And. I. Need. To. Know. Too!” Sherlock's voice raised progressively into a yell, and he emphasized the end by slamming both hands on the table and using his full height to loom over John. 

John didn't flinch. “I'll have you know I'm not that easy to scare, or intimidate, or whatever you think you're doing. If you missed your prey you should reconsider your conclusions instead of harassing me. You might be wrong,” he hissed. He felt mildly guilty, because Sherlock had been _right_ , but he couldn't say the truth, could he? Golem wasn't a danger to anyone anymore, and that was all that mattered, right?

“What _else_ do you think I've been doing since yesterday?” Sherlock bit back bluntly. “I'm _never_ wrong. The only possible explanation is that I still lack relevant data. Data you hold. So _tell me_. It's an order.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed? Cowed?” he said flatly. God Jim was right. This one was a jerk. An arrogant one. Never wrong? What the hell?

“Actually, I hoped to manipulate your subconscious into yielding what I need, but there is always something one misses. Right. Officer. You _give_ orders, and you don't acknowledge me as your superior. Of course it wouldn't work,” Sherlock admitted nonchalantly. 

_'How did he know I was a soldier? Did he research me?'_ John wondered. _Well, only a way to find out._

“What makes you think I've been in the army?”

“Oh, _please._ I'm neither blind nor an idiot. Regulation hair length, your whole posture, the tan – limited, not from sunbathing – you aren't only a soldier, you're just back from war. Afghanistan or Iraq? I'm not sure about that. Ex army doctor, to be precise, and back for good, not on leave. You were in the hospital area yesterday, and friendly with an employee, as you pointed out. You wouldn't meet Jim if you went to the hospital only as a patient yourself, though. He's obviously not a relative of yours – there isn't the slightest resemblance – or an old friend. He'd know you weren't at ease and not quite capable to pretend and step in to help you _before_ you blundered, not after. Hence you've been discharged from the army, found a job at Bart's and met him recently. You don't work in the same department as he: there isn't even a pc here, there's no way you are a technological expert. So, a doctor. Invalided home, doctors on the battlefield are too precious to be easily discharged otherwise. Not your leg though, that's psychosomatic. That cane is not a fashion statement, you expected to need it, but yesterday it dangled from your hand and your gait was definitely springy. So don't lie to _me_.” 

Sherlock said all that almost in a breath, decidedly too quickly for John (for anyone, really) to put a word in edgewise. The general feeling coupled being under machine gun fire with being masterfully dissected, and while neither image was particularly delectable, John couldn't quell the surge of admiration. So he didn't even try. 

“You're brilliant!” he exclaimed. He managed not to clap. That'd be ridiculous. 

His sentence clearly took back the inquisitor before him, but that didn't make sense. He must have heard that all the time.

Apparently not, because Sherlock's reply was, “That's not what people normally say.”

“What do they say?” John asked, honestly curious.

“Piss off,” Sherlock admitted. 

John started to giggle. He'd been tempted himself to say something similar, but that was _before_ he realized he had a bloody genius in front of him. Sherlock giggled with him, uncontrollably, and oh hell, they'd become a weird sort of friends, hadn't they? At the very least, _he_ liked Sherlock.

The latter had sensed it, evidently, because when they calmed down, he said, “You aren't an accomplice, you aren't easy to scare...I don't know why you're keeping a secret, but come on, John. _Help me_.”

Dyaus help him, John _wanted_ to do so. Lying to Sherlock would have been useless anyhow. Worse, insulting. But he was in danger, so... “Let me see your phone and I'll tell you,” he proposed. 

Sherlock handed it over immediately, without commenting on the weirdness of the request. John checked the message folder – just this side of overflowing – even if he knew already that he wouldn't find Dyaus' number on it. You don't hand your life over so casually. He checked the contacts too – four, the man needed a social life badly – just because he could before returning it. 

“I need you to keep an open mind,” he warned, voice serious. Sherlock only snorted. “We met Golem. He attacked us. I killed him,” John confessed bluntly. 

“I said don't _lie_ , John. When I couldn't find him, I went back and checked the most likely places he could have hidden his victim too, in case we had missed each other for only a few minutes – but enough for him to kill. I went in the building you were leaving from too. It would have been a suitable place to dump an eventual body. there was nothing there,” the detective replied, clearly disappointed. 

“I know. That's why I asked for an open mind,” the doctor quipped with a smirk. “I'll be forthright, ok? The world is ending. Some people – among which Golem and I – were granted a very limited way to know the future. We're meant to find and kill each other until only one survives. For some reason, the dead bodies are absorbed by a temporary, little black hole and disappear. I guess we're not meant to get in trouble with the police, since the winner could stop the end of the world,” he revealed. 

“Do you really think I'd fall for such a poorly concocted story John? Do I look like I should belong in some random cult? Or are you part of one and they have washed away your last neuron in the short span of time you've been back already?” Sherlock inquired sharply. “I do hope in the army you had no time for this nonsense.” 

“I have evidence,” John replied quickly. He opened his blog and showed it to the detective. “Look when it's been updated,” he exhorted.

“I maintain you're hiding something, so it wasn't odd to suspect I'd notice and come to question you. That you guessed the hour...I suppose it's part chance, part whatever information about me you said you gleaned from your friend that could help you determine it,” the sleuth objected. “You won't answer them?” he added, referring to the texts whose alerts had been quickly – _angrily –_ coming since John had confessed his murder. _Still hoping to discover something more?_

“I know what they say,” the doctor shrugged. _Of course I do. Jim must have been updated of what's been happening and is worried. Well, Dyaus didn't say they had to keep this a secret from everyone. Just that it was in their best interest not to be discovered by the other players, but Sherlock doesn't play._

“I thought myself crazy for the longest time – until this started, actually – so I understand that you don't believe me. Hell, I wouldn't believe myself. I've told you nothing but the truth, so you won't obtain other secrets from me. Feel free to come and see me from time to time. Try to surprise me: you'll see the predictions are true and perhaps you'll accept the rest is as well. With time. I have a feeling I'll enjoy seeing you until then,” he proposed with a large smile. 

Again, for a heartbeat – just a heartbeat – the detective looked almost startled. God he was lonely, wasn't he? If Molly liked him, why didn't she _do_ something? 

“Unlikely as it is, it could be an acceptable experiment. I have to get the truth out of you, after all, and not seeing you anymore won't be conducive to that,” Sherlock stated. 

“Yes would have been enough,” John pointed out with a grin. “See you soon then?” 

“You'll know, won't you?” the detective quipped. 

“Naturally,” he agreed. And with that John parted from the most peculiar man he was likely to ever meet. At least he thought so. And given what he was involved with, that was saying a lot. 

 

 

 

  
  


  
  


 

  
  


 


	7. The art of balance, part a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. Do I really need to say it each chapter?
> 
> A.N. Sorry for the long Hiatus. Summer and hot waves with hellish names (Charon, Styx) sent my brain in temporary meltdown ...and then I got ill. I only hope it will be better, but I’m juggling many projects now, so chapter 7 might be slowish too. Hopefully not like this.

 

 

Chapter 6: The art of balance, part a

 

John resisted the temptation to read Jim's texts, even when Sherlock left. He resisted the urge to text or call back and apologize, too. He would see his ally tomorrow (indubitably) and justify himself. He had no need to appease the man now; he got overwhelmed by Jim often enough that it was high time to regain a bit of lost footing.

 

He knew all about preemptive damage control, though, so before coming in to work the next day he sent a text of his own. 'It's all fine. I'll explain. At lunch if you're Molly-free?' Better this than having Jim pop up on a whim while he was busy. The blog's predictions were weak against people suddenly changing idea, and Jim was the king of that. A ping came quickly announcing the reply. 'It's a da~te. JM' John couldn't let this pass. He wrote back, 'No. It really isn't.'

 

It worked, luckily. John could do his job undisturbed, and was able to put the inevitable confrontation awaiting him out of his mind. When lunch hour came, so did Jim, with a grin and a recommendation for this great place just around the corner. John went along. It was probably best to take the conversation there; they would surely be overheard by colleagues at the hospital canteen. And that prospect was not good or, at the very least, extremely awkward. Well, if the place were so near that chance would still be present, theoretically, but John trusted Jim would have thought of that.

 

It was a tiny place, but the sandwiches were really good, and their seats would let them see if any of their friends came in. Jim was even considerate enough to bring him here and wait for John to take a bite before starting to chew _him_ out. Or perhaps he didn't want to be interrupted and John's mouth being full suited his purpose.

 

“What the hell did you think you were _doing_ yesterday, John? Admitting the full truth? Are you mad?” he hissed, the absence of nickname another clear indicator of his ire.

 

“Look, it's really fine. The only reason we need it kept secret is because of the other players, right? Sherlock doesn't play. I tested him, and he gave me his phone without batting an eyelid. We know better than to do that,” John said, in the placating voice which usually did wonders with upset children.

 

Jim was no child, sadly. “Your reasoning contains so many fallacies I'm wondering how you got your grade. That man doesn't play because he gave you his phone? When has it been outlawed to have more than one mobile phone? And when did Dyaus say each and every one of them would receive his messages and become pivotal to the game?” he asked pointedly.

 

“Oh,” the doctor breathed, a bit embarrassed at his oversight. “Well, if I were outed to another player I'd receive the 'dead end' warning, wouldn't I? I didn't. So, there,” he continued, unwilling to concede his utter idiocy.

 

“You should. But I'm wondering if Dyaus meant that literally or based that prediction on his knowledge of standard human behaviour,” Jim stated, with a hand-waving that reminded his friend weirdly of hypnotists.

 

“Sorry, what?” was the most intelligent reply John could muster.      

 

“The most peculiar characteristic of our blogs is their time constraint. They don't look very much into the future...which is sensible, since we can change that. With many players and a relatively short game, it's a safe bet to say that people would start planning for an attempt on one's life the moment they knew the target. And that could be enough to set the relative future in motion and warrant a warning. But you're different, Johnny,” the IT expert expounded, fondness creeping into his voice towards the end.

 

“Why?”

 

“Don't get angry now, but you've been...deliciously naive. Full confession, really? You could just say 'Nice to meet you Mr. Cat, I'm Mouse'. _I_ wouldn't outright plan to kill you. I'd plan to play with you, befriend you, have you eating from my hand...and _then_ kill you. Eventually. When you outlived your entertainment value. That would not get you any dead end for a long time,” Jim stated with a very predatory smile.

 

“Who's the one being stupid by revealing his cards now?” John joked, though his voice was a bit strained. He'd suspected as much...well, not exactly as much, but he'd known better than  being totally at ease around Jim.

 

“I resent that. The mere fact I told you that should be enough evidence I don't mean to go through with it. I said _would_ , John. Details matter. I don't want you to get along with someone else and possibly fall into a trap. Never doubt how precious you are to me, Johnny,” the other replied, and John kind of toned out his protests of love because 'details matter' reminded him irresistibly of Sherlock.

 

“Yeah, well...better head back. I don't want Sarah to scold me because I took a lunch break too long,” he said, trying to avoid Jim's devolving into his flirty, over-emotive persona. Thank God his friend agreed.

 

John was at the end of his shift, and preparing to go home a bit more carefully than usual (well, that was the blog’s plus) when he received a text. 

 

_John, don’t. JM_

 

He ignored it. What was the bloody point of having a future blog if he didn’t use it?

 

He walked home, and sure enough, halfway through he found him. The kid – around fourteen, redhead, lanky – was gasping loudly, swaying, his face swelling up. John knew anaphylactic shock symptoms when he saw them. It just happened that he was equipped to deal with it too. With a few reassuring words, he set to work. Concentrated oxygen first, colloidal solution after…He was about to inject adrenaline when he got tackled by what it’s easy to recognize as bodyguards. “I’m a doctor!” he yelled “and he needs help!”. It took a few seconds, but he was allowed to continue his job. When he was almost done, and ready to go home, when the irritation got the better of him. His Captain bearing  came out, and he said sternly, “Next time you get assigned to guarding someone, you don’t take your eyes off him, understood? _I_ meant him no harm, but if there was time for him to get in a pinch and for me to start treating, you’ve definitely lost him too long!”. 

 

The bodyguards blinked, not expecting a lecture from the stranger. 

 

“And if you want to get rid of them – very comprehensibly, mind – start knowing how to take care of yourself first,” he told the youngster, who was by now well, if a bit shaken from the experience.

 

“Will do, sir,” the boy replied earnestly. He didn’t like to be leashed, but having his life saved and seeing his annoying ‘nannies’ verbally lashed made the sign of respect almost unconscious.

 

And if John had just saved some star of another’s rebellious offspring and ended on the news for it he didn’t care. Really. He was just happy that the blog allowed him to help someone who needed it. 

 


	8. The art of balance, part b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. At all. Sorry for the Hiatus but John was angry at being casted as Yukiteru (Future Diary's main character is frankly a wimp) and refused to cooperate. Forgive me any flaws. He's still not in the best of moods to be handled by me. Sorry about it

John snorted when he read his blog the following day. So much for thinking that trouble would come only from Dyaus' mad game. Would this really have happened either way or was the god trying to amuse himself still? To an onlooker, it would have looked like chance, but there was the saying about chance and God. Oh well, he'd get his show then. John supposed someone else would profit from the warning and avoid any involvements with that, but not John. Not even after Jim's text. _Do not even – think – about playing hero, John. JM_

Only that for the doctor it wasn’t a game at all, nor theatrics. Taking the tube later that day to go meet a friend he found a true (not that the ones he already knew are false) madman with a gun. The doctor wondered idly if the man was an American tourist. Their cousins did give away guns in Easter eggs – well, not, but sometimes it felt like it – so it was easier for one to end in a crazy man's hand. He wondered after training took over, that is, and he managed to subdue the man and take the weapon from him. Of course. Nobody was hurt, thanks to the man's frankly awful aim and John's quick intervention.

Someone called the police, and soon the matter was out of his hands. John tried to slip away, but a journalist headed for him, much like a vulture. He would be on the news again. It wasn't like he could let people be shot when he could help it. That would give him nightmares for sure.

Jim raged by text, but he gave up quickly. When John was at Barts' for his shift, that afternoon, his ally cornered him before he could go back home.

“Honestly, John, you don't need to play bait!” Jim said, hands restless with the need for emphasis.

“What?”

“I mean it, I've almost perfected an algorithm to find the other players, there's no reason for you to paint a big shiny target on to your back,” the brunet explained.

“I'm not,” the doctor countered.

“Of course you are, Johnny. You keep being in the right place at the right moment...or the wrong, as it were...and making the news. That kind of timing is a blog's doing, everyone will notice. If they have a brain, that is. But as I said I'm working on it, you don't need to attract players,” Jim insisted.

“I'm really not doing it. Not on purpose. And you should let that algorithm go, too,” John replied.

“Should I?” his friend wondered, surprised.

“Do you want to be God?” the doctor queried.

“Not especially,” the other admitted.

“Then stop. I'm not interested in it either. We don't forfeit, mind you. We just go on with our life and defend ourselves if need be. I'm a doctor. I don't go out of my way to harm people,” John pleaded.

“You were in the army...invading Afghanistan,” Jim bit back.

“I didn't mean to conquer it. Just stop some not very nice people. And even there, I  treated people first and foremost. Of course, if 

  
  


anyone felt like shooting at me...” John shrugged away the conclusion of his sentence. Obviously he defended himself and his patients.

“That's lovely to know, and I might agree to your not-search-for-them plan if you agree to mine. Keep a low profile, Johnny. No matter what's supposed to happen, someone else can solve that problem. You're undercover now,” the brunet replied. Maybe the wording of that last sentence would persuade John.

“Forget it. If I can help I will, Jim,” the doctor stated. It was his nature. He couldn't renounce it.

“You mule! Fine, do as you wish, but don't come to me when they find you out!” Jim hissed angrily.

“Fine.” If that was the price for helping, John would pay it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. John's referencing the quote “Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when He did not want to sign.” Wiki tells me it's misattributed to Anatole France but really of Théophile Gautier


	9. Paradigm shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: everything is property of Conan Doyle, BBC or Sakai Esuno (not much hers in this chapter actually)  
> A.N. I'm not sure if the Beige Bedsit of Doom had shutters at its windows; for my needs, it has them now.

The day after, John read his blog first thing upon waking, as usual. Then reread it. Then pinched himself. Nope, not dreaming. And the blog's text was still not changing. Oh, well. At least it wasn't a dead end. When his bell rang, John was ready. Tea on, towels ready, old newspapers to protect the floor. And shutters lowered, so that Sherlock couldn't claim that John had seen him from the window and arranged things as a consequence.

“Seriously, I thought that you hunted killers, not that you pretended to be one,” he said as a greeting.

What possessed Sherlock to go around in a fine morning brandishing a bloody (literally) harpoon and generally looking straight out of a horror B Movie?

“I’m not playing, John. And of all the assumptions you could make, I thought you’d pick a more sensible one. I was merely experimenting and then decided to drop by. You said I could,” the sleuth replied, defensively.

“I don't even want to know what kind of experiment entailed _that_. And of course you could. Just to be sure, this is not actually your blood, is it? Any of it?” the doctor queried.

“Don't you know?” Sherlock countered, cheeky. 

“I hoped the blog would have mentioned it if you were hurt, and yes, it didn't mention anything about it. But I'm still relatively new to this lark, and it's not like it hurts to check. Call it professional bias,” John replied, showing his mobile for validating his points.

“Not mine, the blood. A pig's courtesy. It's very similar to the human one, as I'm sure you know,” Sherlock reassured. Then, apparently, details started to seep in his mind – or be processed, maybe. “Wait...you knew. You really knew. In advance. Molly had no idea of this experiment, not anyone else at Barts', and your shutters were shut. And they were from the start, I noticed them on the street, you didn't spy me from them. Did you bug my apartment? You must have. How did I miss that?” he added, talking hurriedly, anxious.

“I didn't,” John countered, calm. Placating. “You can go to check if you want, but really... how would I even get in your house without you knowing? I hope you don't routinely leave it unlocked.” He grinned.

“But you _must_ have done it,” the detective insisted.

“Why?”

“Because otherwise it's madness. Precognition. By technological means, and that's even more absurd than the usual fake ESP. A god. What kind of God does something like this? It can't be true,” Sherlock mumbled. He was near hysteric.

“It is true, though, and yes, Dyaus might not be your average God, but at least he's trying to protect the world somehow.” The doctor defended his deity in a soft voice.

“It can't be. Gods don't exist in the first place,” Sherlock claimed. He was almost hyperventilating.

“Breathe, Sherlock, please. In and out slowly, ok? For me, come on. Breathe in tandem with me,” John pleaded. He hadn't meant to cause this, and the urge to fix it was staggering.

Gradually, the detective came down from his panic attack.

“Sorry, I'm an idiot. I was so eager to be proven right that I didn't realize how you'd react. I took it in stride myself because I was immensely glad not to be crazy, but you...” the doctor apologized, offering a cup of tea. It was light enough not to agitate Sherlock further, or at least he hoped so.

“No, my behaviour was...unseemly. I've assumed things to be impossible when they were merely highly improbable, according to my personal beliefs. It's shameful,” the detective cut in. Sherlock looked honestly sheepish, and somehow John knew that it wasn't usual for him.

“It's perfectly normal, Sherlock,” he assured. The answering grimace told him that his friend didn't find it comforting. At all. “If it helps, it's not like our destiny is set in stone. I've seen the prediction change, so our free will is very much intact.”

“It does help, John. Thank you. I would so hate being some sort of pawn of a mad deity. So the foretelling can change, you say. Have you seen what else it can do?” the sleuth countered, suddenly fired up and with a decidedly manic glint in his eyes.

“Oh no. you're not experimenting with the blog. My life is hanging on it.”

A slight, childish, out-of-place pout, but Sherlock quickly relented. “Fine. I'm not taking the chance to hurt you. You're the only one who finds me bearable after all,” he conceded.

“That's not true, I'm sure. Molly...”

The detective cut him in again, “...wants me to have intercourse with her. Reasonable, since her boyfriend is gay, but I'm not interested. Not in her, not in a threesome, not in him. Being in lust doesn't necessarily equal appreciating someone, John.”

“You're wrong at the very least on one detail, you know,” the doctor replied.

“What?”

“Molly's boyfriend isn't interested in you. He finds you annoying. I'm sure because he tried to court me – I guess – but I'm not gay, so...” He shrugged.

“You're making my point, John. People don't like me,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“I really can’t imagine why,” John said. “You’re the least boring person I know. Are you sure that you aren’t wrong again?” He wanted to believe it. To be the only one who liked Sherlock would have been too sad - not to mention unreasonable. 

“I don't make a habit of twisting data to fit the theories, even if most people are stupid enough to do exactly that,” the sleuth announced, argumentative.

“And you're oh so humble, right?” the doctor quipped with a grin.

“I have no reason to be,” Sherlock stated smugly.

“That last statement is true...and I'm starting to think that's exactly your problem,” John stated, shaking his head fondly. Only Sherlock.

Later, at work, Jim cornered him – again. “Are you trying to make me jealous, Johnny? Fraternizing with Holmes, really?”

“Look Jim, if you say that I can't come to you, shouldn't you stop with the stalking too? And I've already told you that we're not like that,” John countered, brisk.

Jim pouted. “Oh. That. Isn't this kind of revenge beneath you? Fine, fine. I wasn't serious. It's not like I could close my eyes and let you get killed anyway,” he admitted.

“It's not revenge but...are you serious?” the doctor queried. He needed to know if Jim was ally or foe after all, and the blog could help him little in that. The man was a potential threat, and a powerful one.

“I even got you a gift!” his friend said with manic enthusiasm, producing a package from one of his large pockets.

John opened it, and his breath was stolen away at the sight of a gun, twin of the one he'd used in the army.

“It was either this or chocolates to say sorry for getting angry, and given our situation I thought this might be more appropriate,” Jim revealed with a grin.

“How?”

“It's amazing the things you can get on eBay.” 

 


	10. Playing the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine yet. I'll warn you if I win the lottery and buy Sherlock. :-)   
> A.N. Sorry for the short chapter, but I'm horrible at action scenes. Not sorry about the cliffhanger (ok, a bit only).

Jim's pretty gift had come not a moment too soon. The following day brought a 'dead end' warning. Oh well, John's lucky streak was bound to end someday, and according to Jim he had advertised his blog's existence. What shocked him was the way of his threatened demise. So the news had mentioned that he had been a doctor and probably had specified where he had worked (John hadn't really paid attention to them), but what kind of man would have considered a hospital a good place to shoot people? Where had the research-your-target phase gone?

John ruthlessly squashed the urge to call either Jim or Sherlock. The detective might be amazing (and John suspected that he might have had intel on snipers active in the Great London area) and would probably welcome the hunt, but putting uninvolved people in danger was simply unacceptable. As for Jim, he would do what he wanted without a care for what John intended to do, but really, he'd done everything he could by giving John the gun. The doctor needed to handle this kind of things by himself if he meant to survive the game. And he really shouldn't feel as good as he did when pocketing a weapon, with the prospect of his life hanging by a thread.

In a different situation, John would have called the police, but the game was clearly not within their jurisdiction. Should he warn his colleagues, he wondered? But he couldn't explain how he knew, and what if they told him to take the day off due to paranoia fueled by PTSD? What would this sniper do if he didn't find his prey? Go away? Or get angry?

So he went to work, and saw the usual, common patients thrumming with what should have been fear but was truly excitement. Jim didn’t drop by, nor did he text a single word, and John really shouldn't be disappointed. The man was changeable, after all. Maybe he had decided that John wasn't worth helping anymore.

When the time came, he was in the hospital's hall, ready to push the unsuspecting would-be victim out of a bullet's path. Someone screamed.

A distorted voice came from across the street. “Come out and play, doctor Watson!”

He did, of course. But at the same time someone who sounded a lot like him – but had to be Jim with some voice synthesizing device – loudly taunted, “Why don't you come inside? Afraid, are you?”

Which was very good, because it distracted his adversary's attention, saving John from being shot the second he exited the hospital. It was bound to make him angry, too, so it would be easier for him to slip. The worst enemies were always cold-blooded.

John found cover behind a parked car – he might not want to involve people, but he wasn't quite so worried about their properties – and tried to pinpoint where this bastard could be, based on the bullet's trajectory. He soon narrowed it down to a couple of buildings, and moved quickly towards them, keeping his course as non-linear and covered as possible. Training took over, and he'd be damned if he got taken down, even with the quite obvious disadvantage of gun against rifle. It helped that Jim, though safe (presumably in his office) kept up the disruptive interferences, with sneers and taunts that came from random speakers in the street. John would be dead more than once, without Jim's occasional, “duck!”. The computer technician texted him which one of the two edifices John had narrowed it to contained the sniper, too. However he'd determined it – maybe by blog, maybe somehow else – John didn't really care. He just trusted it. While he ducked inside the open door of the right building, John heard a siren approaching.

Someone had called the police – little wonder in that – so he needed to wrap this out quickly. Things would get very weird otherwise. It was a condo not entirely different from his own, and John would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't needed to keep an eye out for anything and the other one on the blog, because _who mined the bloody stairs?_ Well, some steps only luckily, so he could still use them if he was careful enough.

The same distorted voice echoed through the place. “Good job surviving, Doctor. Getting allies, too.” Maybe he was supposed to say thank you, but John preferred to aim at the shock of black hair he'd glimpsed behind a corner. And missed.

The police had come in the meantime. Invites to John's enemy to give up and get out were being yelled by loudhailer, but of course it wasn't about to happen. There was a moment where John was sure both the sniper's mind and his were full of, “Oh _fuck._ ”

Time stood still, John moving towards a better position to end his damned duel from, while the other probably pondered his chances.

Then a grey-haired policeman came in, and the sniper aimed. Not at John. At one of the rigged steps. Shit.

 


	11. All's well what ends well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The sniper wanted to take out both of them together. It's probably the only reason John and the policeman are alive at the end of this, because judging by the man's aim, he could definitely have killed one of them. Well, that and an insane amount of luck on their part.

There was a split second in which John saw an ajar door at the landing one step ahead of him and leapt inside. Really, this was London, who the hell left the door open? If he survived this a lecture might be in order. Maybe written on the bloc-notes near the phone in the hall he found himself in, since he wasn't going to explore the place to see if he could find someone and nobody was coming. With an added thank you, of course. It had saved his life.

As for the inspector, he had shown wonderful reflexes for a man his age and had run, so that he'd gotten away with minor scrapes, as John had discovered. When he heard the man growl a minute after the explosion, scolding his own subordinates, the doctor deemed the situation safe enough to leave his refuge.

“I said that you had to cordon off this place, instead you all rushed here! We’ll lose him again!” the man fumed.

“Sorry to disturb you,” John called from the landing, “but could you help me get down?”

“Of course. Donovan, find a ladder.”

So a little later John was seeing to the policeman – one DI Lestrade – 's scrapes and remarked, “We're really the favourite sons of lady Luck.”

Everyone else was searching for traces of the sniper, and Lestrade nonchalantly answered, “Not really. I've got a mobile phone too, you know.”

“I don't know what you mean,” John bit back, going rigid.

“Yeah you know, but don't worry. I'm not out for your blood. You've done nothing wrong. Unless you choose to attack, but I wouldn't do it if I were you. Really, if one doesn't stick by his morals at Armageddon when should one do so?” the inspector revealed with a shrug.

“Thank Dyaus that you have morals then. I would be already dead otherwise,” the doctor quipped.

“Maybe. Don't sell yourself short, mate. You were willing to go against the Tiger, and you don't look at all suicidal to me.”

“The Tiger?” the doctor echoed, ignoring the 'you must be armed and ready to fight' implication. Lestrade understood the situation. He wouldn't enforce weapon possession regulations. He didn't look like a man who would want John to be helpless.

“That sniper's alias. I’ll catch him if it’s the last thing I do. He's a paid assassin responsible for so many murders on commission that I've lost count,” Lestrade explained. “It might seem like a pointless exercise, but what am I supposed to do if not work?”

“I'll give you a call next time then,” John offered. Next time, of course. The Tiger wasn't about to give up.

“You do that. Any extra information could be helpful. And of course, if you need help otherwise, call me,” Lestrade said, giving John his number.

“I will, thanks.”

Life had just become brighter. He had someone inside the police that would not question his intel's validity. And he hadn’t tried to kill John as he should have, by all rights. The older man looked like someone who could have become a good friend. Who could still become one, John guessed. Such a pity that they wouldn't have much time to bond.

Then the other agent came back, looking equally sheepish and frustrated. “He's vanished again, sir,” the young black woman reported.

“Of course he has, Donovan,” Lestrade grumbled.

She turned to John all too sharply, asking, “So? Who would send a sniper against you?”

“No one, sergeant. I'm half convinced that he came on his own. For sport, or maybe advertising?” he hypothesized. It was as much truth as he could offer.

“I don't buy that. Look, you don't seem a bad bloke, but the Tiger doesn't hunt just about anyone. You don't want to tell me, fine. We'll discover it anyway someday. But let me give you a good advice. Pull out. Whatever you're involved in, that got you in this position. Stop doing that,” she bit back, before dismissing him. She had good instincts, and really seemed to have John's best interests in mind. Now, if only he could follow her suggestion...Would he have done it, John wondered.

With the agents' permission, he went back to the hospital. Sarah was there to welcome him. Her presence made him a bit uneasy. “I'm sorry about that. If you think that I'm a liability for the hospital...”

“You didn't arrange for that to happen did you?” she asked cheekily.

“Sarah!” he replied, aghast.

“Then it's all right,” she assured. “I was worried about you, you idiot. I thought that I'd lose one of my best doctors.”

“Oh. Thank you. No, I'm fine.”

He would have fretted over the Tiger coming back in a different context, but with Lestrade's collaboration he felt confident that they'd manage to catch him. So he only smiled to her, and started planning to give Jim thank you chocolates later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I know, considering the game you think that Lestrade should have made an attempt on John instead of offering help. But this actually mirrors exactly Mirai Nikki, Sakae Esuno-sama work that I'm roughly following.


	12. Aiming for normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> A.N. Sorry about the long hiatus and because the chapter isn't very riveting, but I needed to set up preparation for better things to come. The next will hopefully be more interesting and, if characters comply at all, come sooner. I'll try my best. Sorry again.

  
  


John's life would not be completely overtaken by Dyaus' game. He refused to forever live in fear if someone would ambush him again. The Tiger would be back when he would. The blog existed to warn him about oncoming danger and ensuring his readiness to defend himself anyway, and it worked flawlessly.

In the meantime, John went to work, ran errands, joined Mike for lunch. He had 'happy accidents'. Like having a pretty girl run into him, getting acquainted with her (scalding hot) coffee and then her. She apologized profusely and they started to talk. Jeanette was a teacher, and she had a lot of funny anecdotes to share. This was John's favourite:

“I'm an art teacher,” she said, “well, more of a failed artist, actually, but I still have fun sketching, and then things happen that you wouldn't believe. Once there was my colleague, the Latin teacher, who informed me that one of the girls he taught  hadn't understood – or so she claimed – a bit of Lucretius (with the translation at the ready, I must add). It described Mars in Venus' lap, all lovey dovey. So, half in jest, he asked me if I wouldn't mind preparing a visual aid for her.”

“And did you?” John queried, interested.

“I did. The pose was unmistakable enough, I hope. I didn't think that in this day and age sixteen years old girls could still be that innocent.”

Just like that, they clicked instantly. She had the most wonderful smile, and agreed to meet him for a date that same evening. Jeanette had heard of John in the news, and she joked about landing herself a date with a celebrity.

“Are you going to model for me?” she inquired, smiling.

“If you let me see the end result.”

She gave him her napkin. On it there was her name, her phone number and – on a corner – a sketch of their waiter drawn with impressive realism. She'd been drawing almost compulsively all this time. He'd made sure to restrain his curiosity and pretended not to notice, but John was happy that he'd been showed all the same. “It looks great,” he remarked. “I can't see why you're not a full-time artist.”

“I'm not Raffaello,” she replied, “but I'm really glad that you like this. See you tonight, then!”

When she was leaving, a shamrock notebook fell from her purse. John picked it up from the floor and gave it back to her. He was almost tempted to peek at it, but she'd gone suddenly rigid, even while thanking him, so it wouldn't be a good idea. Whatever was drawn there was evidently too private. It didn't stop his curiosity, but it was well to have a goal: make her comfortable enough to share all her art. And then share everything else too.

A moment later there was a text from Jim and an update from the blog. He didn't check the latter – it surely mentioned the date, which was the result of mere chance – but read the first.

_ What are you doing? JM _

_ Enjoying my life. Told you I'm not gay, Jim. Behave,  _ he replied.

_ Pretending that you have a normal life? ;-) You don't, John. Don't be childish. JM  _ was the immediate reply.

_ I can, for  one evening. If you let me.  _ John almost added please, but that was going too far. He didn't need Jim's fucking permission to date.

_ Try your best. I'll do the same. JM _

At that, John called him. “Jim,” he said in a warning tone.

“I'm not going to purposefully ruin your life, Johnny. I want you happy,” the tech countered silkily.

The doctor sighed in relief. “And couldn't you say it outright instead of being so vague?”

“What would be the fun in that? I find you amusing, really. Have you already checked the blog so you will be ready for her?”

“I'm not going to; I'd rather be spontaneous when it comes to Jeanette and I. As I said, I look forward to enjoying my time with her. Quite a lot to be honest,” John admitted happily.

“Don't complain to me if you're disappointed, Johnny,” Jim bit back sharply. Which sounded ominous, considering that Jim's blog was about him.

“Why? Do you already know that I'm going to be?” the doctor queried.

“What happened to wanting to be spontaneous? Maybe even surprised for once?” Jim countered mockingly.

“Don't tease. I might check my own blog, but I'd need to end this call, and you like me and hence don't want me to hang up. If you know already, just tell me if I should call the whole thing off,” John stated firmly.

“Cheeky. But I like you when you are, Johnny. At least today. Yes, I checked. No, you don't need to change your plans. I'm not spoiling anything, but I'll say that this evening will definitely be interesting.”

Even if Jim couldn't see him, John smiled. “Thank you. I hope that you have a fun evening too.”

“Oh, I will. Do not worry about me, Johnny. Though it's sweet of you. After all, you have a date to plan. Of course, if you need a hand with that...” Jim purred.

“A kind offer but I won't be needing help. I can woo people perfectly well on my own. I assure you. I'll manage. And honestly, I think that you'd be more likely to ruin my plan than helping me.”

“Oh, Johnny. I'll always help you. You should know that. Whatever you need, please remember that I'll be there for you,” Moriarty proclaimed. So nice of him. Actually, probably too nice.           

 

 

 


	13. A fun date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

John's choice fell on a cosy Italian restaurant. Nothing too fancy, but then again, fancy wasn't his style and Italian food was one of the best cuisine in the world. Jeanette seemed pleased as she smiled at the owner, who brought a candle to set the atmosphere for the two of them even before John could manage to ask for it.

Everything seemed like a dream, but then John became aware of a disturbance at the corner of his eye. He looked discretely, and sure enough, there was Jim sitting all alone at another table. John couldn't do a thing – this was a public place, after all – but annoyance flared bright within him.

Wasn't the electronic stalking enough anymore? Then again, the doctor resolved to pay him no mind and enjoy the evening. Let Jim see how well he could play this ignoring game .

Only that Jim didn't let him. The waiter had just brought their dishes, and Jeanette had asked for a kiss first, "to know what _ you _ taste of," as she said, which John was more than happy to indulge. And here, before he could taste anything but her, Jim was at their table, helpfully pointing out that the waiter switched their orders.

Jeanette, still latched to him, 'accidentally' elbowed the plate, which flipped over and spilled its content on Jim’s nice looking shirt. It could be an accident, it was also possible that she really didn't appreciate being interrupted. She apologized immediately and profusely, of course. Jim only smiled at her, waving her concern away, and went to retrieve John’s order from his table.

He didn't disturb them anymore after that, and after the rocky start, the dinner went considerably well. So well, in fact, that John brought her over to his home after it and they ended up having sex. And then, she suggested showering together. It was definitely a good day.

"But you enter the shower first," she murmured huskily, "I've got an idea that you'll like."

A second later, all the lights went off in the apartment.

"We could use some candles," John proposed, as he stepped out of the shower to go get them. The moment he did, though, he was greeted by a shocking sight. Jeanette clutched a blowdryer – a plugged in one – in her hands , her expression akin to a deer caught in headlights.

"That's certainly a surprise," he said evenly.

She let the appliance fall to the floor, her hands opening involuntarily. John, unconcerned by being wet and naked in front of his would-be murderer, held both her wrists in one hand. She seemed too shocked at being found out to fight him. "Is it the game? Is this the reason for everything that happened tonight?" he queried, disappointment in his voice.

She decided to struggle, then, but it was too little too late to free herself from his grip. So she answered instead, challenge burning in her eyes, "Of course. What else could it be?"

"You're in luck. I'm not in the habit of killing my girlfriends. Just give me your blog and I'll let you go. After I destroy it, naturally," John uttered quietly.

"No you won't. Why should I?" she replied, distrustful.

"Do you want to get killed that much? Because I might oblige you," he answered sternly.

"Fine. You've won. I won't be a goddess. But I would have been a wondrous one. Sure that you don't want to be the one to forfeit?" Jeanette bit back playfully.

"Quite sure, thank you." John was still unsure about what losing one's blog entailed. Well, he was about to discover it.

They went back to the bedroom, and Jeanette let out a loud yelp. The room wasn't empty. Jim was there, with a clearly appreciative grin on his face and a gun in his hand. John's gun. Did he even know how to use it? He stated curtly, "Don't even try it."

"What?" John and the woman asked together.

"The mobile phone that she’d present you with is mostly coated in poison. Of course she’d be very careful where and how she touches it.  I'm guessing that's not even her blog," Jim informed them conversationally.

John put on a dressing gown, trusting Jim to keep an eye on her. No need to offer a show to his friend. Jim fixed a ruthless stare on Jeanette, and she whimpered, "Please."

"Your blog, Jeanette," John replied kindly.

"You can't trust her, Johnny. She might try some other trick. I can't spend all my time guarding you, no matter how pleasant I find it," Jim interjected.

"Please, John. Forfeit. I need to become a goddess, you see. I have dead people that I need to call back to life," she entreated.

"Who?" the doctor queried. Before she could reply, Jim had shot her down. The helpful black hole appeared, born not from the phone, but from her shamrock notebook. It certainly explained why she was so nervous about it.

"Jim!" John protested loudly.

"Oh  _ please _ , she was going to lie. Don't you ever watch Lie to me? She had all the tells. I got bored," Jim quipped, shrugging his friend's concern away.

"Bored?" the doctor echoed, aghast.

"Fine. Not only bored. I couldn't risk you believing her, getting all compassionate and letting her win. She wouldn't have kept dating you anyways, you know. We're allies, and I am going to do my part to keep you in game," Jim said determinedly.

"I wanted to see what happens when destroying one's blog, but no matter. Anyway, thank you for all the help. That's what this was all about, at the restaurant, wasn't it? And that blackout was too well timed to be chance. How many times have you even saved me tonight?"

John really should stop ignoring the blog. He couldn't risk missing Dead ends like this. Why had Jim not told him about that, though? The man was mad as a hatter.

"Three, but who is counting? I don't mind, Johnny. It was fun. And now I really should do something about that black out before everything in your fridge is ruined and you blame me," Jim remarked genially. "But I'd like to spend a little more time with you after I've fixed it. Do I get a coffee for saving you?"

"Whatever you like, Jim," the doctor assured. "Within reason," he added hastily, seeing his friend's eyes glint in an unsettling way.

A few minutes later they were seated with their hot coffee. "As I said, I'm really grateful, but Jim, we need to talk about you breaking in. Amazingly easy, I might add," John stated seriously.

"I don't know what you believe, Johnny, but this isn't exactly Fort Knox. Of course I showed myself in here. And I think that I behaved considerably well, actually. It's not like I broke in to watch you sleep. Even if I wanted to, and more than once. I only did it in an emergency. And I'll do it again, should the need arise," Jim replied with a grin.

"Emergencies. Fine. I can agree to you popping in then. But really, keep restraining your creep side. Ex soldier, you know. You really don't want to startle me upon awakening," John warned. Break in to watch him sleep? Jim had to know it was absolutely not fine.

"Which is why I behaved. Not an idiot, Johnny," Jim huffed.

"Never said you were. We agree, then. You better behave, unless we're in a crisis. And you don't fabricate crises. Like this, it's all fine."

"Of course. You know, you said that I could have whatever I wanted for saving you, remember, Johnny? So, can I have a kiss too? Beyond coffee, I mean," Jim muttered, a bit awkwardly but...cute? Was John really thinking that about him? Still...

"Jim, I'm..."

"Not gay. Yes. I know. Not necessarily a kiss on the mouth, get your mind out of the gutter, Johnny," Jim relented. "But can I have a kiss?"

"Oh well...I promised, didn't I?" John got up, pretended to fidget uneasily for a moment and then, playful and gleeful at the same time, kissed Jim. On the tip of his nose.

Jim laughed happily. "That's a start in the right direction. Someday, Johnny, you'll see." And he bounded out of John's life once again, grinning like a loon.  


	14. An invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine but Sherlock's view on politicians.

When John read that Sherlock would pop by, the following day, he smiled to himself. It would have been understandable – reasonable, even – if the man had decided that he didn't want to be involved with the craziness that was John's life, but apparently that hadn't scared the detective off. Luckily, because he was one of the more interesting individuals that the doctor had ever had the pleasure to meet.

So when the sleuth arrived, after John's shift at the hospital, the doctor had once again tea ready -  some other preparations already done.

Sherlock didn't lose time with small talk, telling him matter-of-factly, "I need your help with an investigation," practically on the doorstep.

"Really? Why?" John replied, pouring the tea.

"Because you were a soldier. A client of mine, a fellow named Henry Knight, came to see me about his father's murder – decades ago, mind. But the man was killed from something that shouldn't have existed. Something that was created in the base of Baskerville. A research center, yes, in all likelihood embarking in highly questionable research from an ethical standpoint...but the point is that the military runs it," the detective explained quickly. "I've already sniffed around the place, but there's only so much one can discover without going inside."

"I don't have a clearance high enough for that kind of place, Sherlock, I'm sorry. Yes, I was an army doctor, but I was not involved in anything like that." John shrugged dejectedly. If there was really something like that going on, he would have had loved to put a stop to it.

"I'll take care of clearance. But I'm clearly not military – I mean, just look at my _ hair _ –  the same way you clearly _ are _ , and I thought you could pretend that I was your scientific consultant or something of the sort. It might work...for a short time. But I won't be needing much time," the sleuth said confidently.

"You'll take care of clearance? You don't happen to be related to the prime minister do you?" the doctor queried, incredulous. Sherlock fixed him with an uncomprehending stare. "Mycroft Holmes? You know, same last name, unique Christian names the both of you..." John explained with a shrug. Add to that Sherlock being able to get clearance for secret military bases and the supposition seemed logical.

"Oh no. God, no," the detective bit back, clearly disgusted.

"So not Tory, then?" John inquired, quite amused at his friend's strong reaction. He wasn't much interested in politics, but he could see that they had one smart prime minister. That at least was good.

"Politicians dupe people regularly. They don't want the best for the nation. They just aim to increase their own power. All of them," Sherlock stated with a grimace. "Luckily we won't be needing any of them to enter the Baskerville base. I was able to forge a fake ID with clearance high enough to enter it. It will hold against the regular check ups, I promise you...for a half hour or so. You don't investigate all kinds of criminals without picking up a few skills here and there along the way."

"So you propose that we go...where, exactly? To break into a secret military base to look for what? A monster they created there through some mad scientific research? And then we should slip away after half a hour, even if we manage to do all those, which we won’t – obviously we won't – and then what? Will they use us as test subjects, maybe? Or will we be lucky and simply end up in jail?" the doctor summarized...but there was a smile playing on his lips through his fake-outraged speech.

"More or less. Though I'm still hoping that we could escape, at least long enough to denounce their unethical experimentation. It would appease my client and probably ensure that our own crime in breaking in there would be deemed less momentous in comparison with theirs. So? Are you coming?" Sherlock queried, clearly hopeful, eyes shining at the prospect of collaborating with John.

"Let me think..." the doctor replied, frowning as if he needed some to do serious pondering on the question. He didn’t want to seem too eager to follow this apparently crazy yet exhilarating suicide mission (well, hopefully they wouldn’t die...Dyaus’d be so disappointed in him). A moment later he said, "It just so happens that I'm already packed for a short vacation. I might as well come along and keep you out of danger." He grinned widely, carefree.

"Or keep you in it. It was the blog, wasn't it? You knew in advance and had already decided," the detective countered. He didn't look spooked at the idea of the future-seeing blog, but interested and pleased. Very pleased. Only because he'd gotten his way?

"Well, yes. But I thought that I'd let you ask before agreeing at least. It seemed the polite thing to do," John stated cheerfully.

Before Sherlock could reply to that, the doctor received a text. "Sorry," he said, excusing himself to read it. Given the timing, he had a good guess about its sender. He was right.

It read,  _ Making me jealous is a thing and you can certainly do it, Johnny. But am I really expected to send you into battle without being there to back you up? JM _

"Erm...Sherlock? Would it be a problem if someone else joined our little party?" John inquired, decidedly awkward. Figures that Jim would have cared about him. He chose to see things that way, it kept the apprehension at bay about his inevitable stalking.

"Who?" the sleuth queried, sounding more than a bit put off.

"Jim Moriarty. Jim from IT. You know, Molly's boyfriend. He has a blog too – one that reads the future, I mean – and we're allies in this end of the world game. He's been informed of what I'll do by his blog, surely. Not by me, I wouldn't invite people without your permission, naturally. But apparently he's interested," John explained, almost blabbering in his haste not to appear like he had organized things against Sherlock's wishes without the detective's knowing.

"I won't have him hindering the investigation," the sleuth declared, his voice sharp.

"He's bright, he won't. And I think that he could create some wonderful distraction should we need one," John defended automatically.

"That's not all," the sleuth replied.

"I'm afraid that he would follow us anyway. When he gets enamored of a plan he can be difficult," the doctor confessed sheepishly.

"Of a  _ plan _ ?" Sherlock echoed, raising a disbelieving brow.

"I already admitted to you that he is interested in me. And that I don't reciprocate. But that's not why I think that he won't leave us alone. Nor why I think that having him with us would be a great idea," John countered, annoyed at the insinuation.

"If you really think so...I guess that I should start getting used to obeying to my commander. I suppose I  _ could forge  _ a fake clearance for him, too," Sherlock said with a shrug, still clearly unconvinced and... disappointed? Why would he be?

"Fine. Good. Perfect. I'll text Jim and let him know. And I'm a captain. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Just in case you need the detail for the clearance faking," John said, instinctively assuming the at rest bearing. "Still not entirely believing that you can do it."

"I’ll be here tomorrow morning at 9:30 with a car...then we'll go to Dartmoor and you'll see exactly how good of  a forger I am. I could be a great criminal if I wanted," Sherlock bit back, clearly showing pride in his skills.

"I'll be expecting you," the doctor replied with a smile.

 


	15. A game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. 

  
  


Jim arrived one hour before Sherlock was scheduled to come, saying, "Are we really doing this? Isn't Dyaus' game entertainment enough for you Johnny?"

"Look, I'm not doing this for entertainment. A friend needs help and I'm certainly not letting him do such thing alone, like you," John pointed out with a grin.

"Liar,"Jim bit back, but he smiled too. "You just love danger, Johnny. But fine. We're doing this. This could be fun."

When Sherlock arrived, he surveyed John critically. "I told you I needed you for your military background. You could have bothered to put on a uniform. Oh, it doesn’t matter, no one with a pair of eyes should doubt that you're a soldier. Off we go!" He ignored Jim entirely, and Moriarty glowered at him.

_ Oh joy _ , John thought. This trip was going to be fabulous.

The whole road to Dartmoor was spent in almost perfect silence. John had instinctively picked the seat by Sherlock's side, and Jim was clearly angry about it, but luckily decided to ignore the both of them and play something on his phone, occasionally looking up to burn holes in their napes.

Sherlock drove and apparently had no more instructions for them, and John was trying to reassure himself that yes, he could fake his way in to a super secret base and wouldn't give the game away the moment he opened his mouth.

John shouldn't have worried. When, despite Sherlock's admirable forgery, a private tried to stop them, he pulled rank as if he'd never left Kandahar.

"That was so hot," Jim whispered.

What John didn't expect was Sherlock's rumble, "Agreed." Jim glared at the detective. (And the doctor was  _ not _ gay, Sherlock's deep baritone  shouldn't do anything for him. It didn't.)

They were allowed to inspect the place, and meet the researchers. Dr. Louise Stapleton was the head of the experimentation, and was clearly not used to her job being questioned. When Sherlock asked after the bigger projects, she led them deeper to underground labs.

John received a text, but he ignored it. Whatever the future reserved them, they were three resourceful men and he had his gun. What could go wrong?

...John was an idiot. Stapleton invited them to go through a door, staying back herself. They found what they were searching for, fine – many cages with inside a whole pack of dogs big like ponies, wild-eyed and growling.

Then the door closed behind them...with Stapleton firmly on the other side, and the cages opened. And the beasts looked like they fancied a snack. Oh bloody fuck.

John shoot two of the dogs – if they could still be called that – down and tried not to think about what would happen when his gun was empty. The doctor would never be sure if the idea was Jim's or Sherlock's, but he found himself dragged in to one of the vacant cages, so they could have some bars between themselves and these threats, even if they were on the wrong side of the bars. Oh yeah, that could work. For a time at least. They couldn't chew through their own cages surely...could they? Their jaws looked like a nightmare.

Then, be it a secret whistle signal or something else, the dogs retreated suddenly...and finally doctor Stapleton entered, and the beasts wagged their tails and sat down docilely. "I'm sorry," she said, helping John out of their cage, "there was an electrical problem and -." "And I've won this round," she proclaimed sharply, putting a scalpel to John's throat. He needed to start checking his bloody blog every time.

"Throw away that gun, _ Captain _ –  and not towards your friends, I'm not stupid," the scientist growled spitefully. The doctor did. What other choice did he have?

"I've noticed you, Holmes. Sniffing around. Trying to win the game. And now youìhave come, with friends. I bet they play too," Stapleton proclaimed, searching for Johns' phone and reading his blog. "Mmmm...useful, with all the information about other people. Mine is about the pets, you see."

"You say you've won. I say we outrank you and there'll be trouble if we disappeared from this particular inspection. What about a game?" Sherlock offered. Jim frowned.

"Which game?" she queried, distrustful.

"We can hardly request Cluedo down here, so I was thinking about 'in which hand do I hold the coin?' I hope you do have a bit of change. We have two chips – my phone and my friend Jim's here, as he plays too. You have two chips – Captain Watson's life and his phone. If you win, you'll have all the phones, but I'd advise you to destroy them once we're far from here, so our disappearances won't be linked back to you. If you lose, you'll let us go and we'll consider this round a draw. We'll depart safely and solve our differences another day. That is a good deal for you isn't it?" Sherlock explained calmly.

Stapleton nodded slowly. She threw John to the dogs, who didn't bite him but simply stood guard over him, keeping John's phone for herself and pocketing it after reading his blog's newest entry."So? Left or right?" she asked, after taking out a penny and playing with it.

"Left," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He had guessed right, so she signaled to the dogs to let John go.

"Sorry about this," he mumbled dejectedly. The doctor should have been happy that Sherlock was playing on their side, not disappointed that the sleuth was part of the god's game at all. Jim was always right, wasn't he? John was a fool to have trusted Sherlock. Though the other man deserved a BAFTA for the way he'd faked his shock the first time John had shown his foretelling blog.

"My fault. I'll solve this," the detective replied, shrugging.

"His fault, yeah," Jim grumbled.

It was Stapleton's turn to guess next. With John's phone on her side, of course she won. 

"Jim, please," Sherlock rumbled.

Moriarty frowned, but he gave up his phone. "Why didn't you give yours?" he protested then. "And as a player, what number are you exactly, mmmm? Since we're putting our lives in your hands, we have a right to know," he asked sharply.

Sherlock laughed. "I have no number, as John knows. But your heads are so full of that silly game that you can't think of anything else.

"But you guessed right just now!" John objected, at the same time that Stapleton remarked, "You were onto me."

"I deduced her choice – that was no guess – basing myself on her character, and I'm aiming to stop her experiments for the sake of the sanity of my client. And I will. If I put my life on the line as a chip, can we continue the game? I'd like to win your phones back. I can, I promise," the sleuth stated confidently.

"I don't see why not," Stapleton agreed. She read John's phone, ready to cheat and change hand at the last second once she found out that Sherlock would have guessed once again, but smiled. There was written,  _ Sherlock guesses wrong _ .

Only the detective had guessed  _ right _ . How could the blog be wrong? "The blog failed. That's impossible," she protested loudly.

Sherlock grinned back at her. Jim was smirking too, while Watson seemed as puzzled as she was.

"The blog comes from Captain Watson's point of view. And since I would have – I just did – told him that I misdeduced, that's what it registered," the detective explained smugly.

"This is completely useless to me then. Take back the damn phone!" she said, throwing it at them, disgusted. "I'm not a fool  too anyway. If you can deduce where the phone is, I surely can too."

The boastful claim was proven wrong right after, when she had to guess and lost Jim's phone, too. "A draw, you said. You go away, take down some more players, and when you think that you can face my pets you might as well come back," Stapleton stated, smirking because of her faith in her pack.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed.

"We keep our word," John added. Jim only frowned.

"Well, we best be off," Watson declared, checking with a look if Sherlock agreed with him. The sleuth nodded.

"Goodbye." Stapleton smiled. The dogs let them go, even wagging their tails lightly, but still John felt better when he could take back his gun on the way out.


	16. Minefields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine.

 

"You're all so obsessed with the game. Notice how she lost every interest in my phone once she found out that I didn't play? Even if I've got evidence of her questionable experiments now in it. Of course I set it to recording," Sherlock whispered on the way out.

"To be fair, it might be because she thought we were sent by the people who ordered her to do so," John replied.

...And of course, that was the moment shit hit the fan – sorry, the moment Sherlock's fake Ids were discovered. Alarms blared, and the three impostors wisely started to run. Soon, they heard raucous woofs. Stapleton must have decided to end the game after all, and the soldiers of the base wouldn't be the only ones hunting for them.

It should have been absolutely terrifying. To the three madmen, it was utterly exhilarating. With a few sharp turns – and profiting of the fact that the free 'dogs' on their tail scared some of the privates, too – the boys managed to leave the base from a secondary exit, but it didn’t deter the pack off their backs.

It was when Jim had one of his 'brilliant' ideas. "Come on, Johnny! Guide us!" he exclaimed, pushing the doctor right into the area clearly labelled, 'Minefield'.

"Jim!" the doctor yelled in protest, barely avoiding a mine thanks to his phone's advice.

"Quick John if you please," Sherlock added, clearly agreeing with Jim. Why were all his friends insane?

Oh well. Only a thing to do. Eyes firmly on his phone, John took a step, praying his favourite madmen would know to put their feet exactly where he put his. He didn't fancy losing people to bloody mines – once again. Losing monstrous dogs hot on his trail to mines – more than once – he had no problem with. The sheer concentration he needed for this kept him from the danger of slipping right into a flashback episode, with his phone as solid reminder of reality. No warfare machines in Kandahar could compare to this.

He'd thought that after a couple of them died, the other dogs would hastily retreat, but no, they were still being pursued – though now the beasts had slowed down, as if careful – or afraid . Their growls were an ominous reminder of the too-close threat. John would shoot them, but he couldn't take his eyes off his phone, if he wanted them all to survive the minefield, and stopping now to take aim – even for a moment – was really not a good idea.

So on he went, until – thank God – they finally passed the minefield eventually ended, and now stranded in the midst of the moor. Of the big pack trailing them, six dogs still followed them. His gun had three bullets remaining. Fuck.

"Stapleton is our problem, not the dogs. She controls them. We'll keep the beasts busy, John, you go back and deal with her," Sherlock declared matter-of-factly. Go back?

"It’d be the last thing she expects, it might just work, Johnny; come on," Jim joined in enthusiastically.

Well, if his friends agreed... John quickly emptied his gun, killing three dogs, before deciding with a heavy heart to leave both his comrades behind and face the minefield again. He hoped they'd be able to evade the dogs – or somehow deal with them. (Didn't Jim have another bomb handy? That'd be nice.) If they could manage the beasts it would allow him to slip away as they planned.

The doctor didn't expect – he should have – that Jim, despite their plans, would once again follow him. "Holmes will sufficiently keep them busy - they won’t go after us. He doesn't need me there. And if we're lucky once we've dealt with Stapleton he will already be eaten," the IT expert declared at John's surprised exclamation.

"Don't even joke about that!" John replied, aghast, trying – matching the information from his  phone – to move quicker. A dense fog fell, and if it helped hid them – and since they were retracing their steps, hopefully the dogs wouldn't trace them back by scent – it made for an eerie, difficult trip. And it could make it easy for Jim to follow him. The tech held physically onto John, and he didn't protest.

"You know I'm jealous of him," Jim whined.

"For the last time, Jim, I'm not gay," the doctor groaned.

"If so why did you check that soldier's ass out earlier?" Moriarty bit back cheekily.

That almost made John misstep. "Christ, I – I didn't, Jim!" he protested loudly.

"If you say so," the tech conceded, plastering himself even closer to him. Once again, John didn't complain against it.

Dyaus must have loved them, because they were finally – once again – out of the minefield, safe and sound, and between the fog, the upheaval being broken into had left Baskerville in, and nobody considering them crazed enough to go back, they managed to slip in. If he were truly here on inspection, John would have written a scathing report on the state of the base.

Now, where to find Stapleton? They infiltrated the labs, which were half empty (the people probably all in the break room busy gossipping about their break in) and wandered aimlessly...until they found her, a hand on her phone, eyes fixed on a pc screen where two (two?! Bravo Sherlock!) luminous dots pulsed.

She shot right up her chair, frightened. "If you're here, what are my babies after?" she queried in a screeching tone.

"My friend," John replied, cold as stone. He saw the scientist's eyes run to his gun.

"This," John admitted, "is empty." He smiled his lovely dangerous smile. "Not that I need it."

Jim had slouched, one shoulder propped against the wall, and popped a chewing gum inside his mouth. Enjoying the bloody show.

Which was over considerably quickly. She tried to yell, tried to struggle, but Captain Watson had soon snapped her neck. (Hey, it had been a very bad day. He honestly didn't even remember the destroy the phone option.)"It'd be too much to hope that her experiments would disappear together with her, right?" he mused.

"Afraid so, Johnny. But don't you worry. If Holmes gets eaten you'll always have me in whatever capacity you want. I'm the only one you'll ever need," Jim replied. "And I'll show you...right now." Grumbling to himself about useful phones being gone, Jim studied the screen in front of him, then started working furiously on the pc. Seven eternal minutes later, the two dots disappeared. "I knew they would have a failsafe in case their little monsters got free. Poison darts in the collars, or something like that. I just activated it," the IT tech declared with a satisfied grin.

John hugged him impulsively, exclaiming, "I love you!"

Jim blushed brightly and only half joked, "I knew you'd come around, Johnny."

"As a best friend, Jim. My genius best friend. Which is why you don't have to be jealous of anyone. There's no one like you," John pointed out quickly.

Jim seemed indecisive between beaming and pouting. In the end, he just shrugged. "If I steal a jeep for you, will you kiss me again like the other day?" he bartered.

"If you get us back our car I might kiss you twice – better not leave them with any evidence to track us with."

With that kind of encouragement, in three minutes they were aboard their rented car and in the process of running over the bar at the entrance, then speeding away. The men at the base didn't expect their intruders to flee a second time, and that was probably the only reason they got away with that.

John rewarded Jim with two quick kisses, one on his temple and the second on his cheek. "Wait I'm an idiot...doesn't Sherlock have the keys to this?" he wondered, baffled.

"Yes he does. But they were unnecessary," Jim shrugged, still beaming from the show of affection.

"You have hundreds of talents, don't you?" the doctor uttered, admiring.

"I do my best. I suppose we have to find Holmes and take him on board now," the IT tech replied, sighing deeply.

" 'Course, Jim. Hope he's okay."

When they found him, Sherlock was – luckily – fine. "But I wouldn't have been if you hadn't acted so quickly. Thank you, John," he said warmly.

"Actually, that was all Jim," John revealed with a grin.

"Oh...um...thank you." The detective sounded much more awkward.

"It's fine. I didn't do it for you anyways," Jim replied with a smirk.

At least now he was driving, John at his side, and Sherlock would be reduced to looking wistfully out of the window. And they won one round. But above all, he got two kisses. Yes, in Jim's book, this little side trip was a brilliant, brilliant success. As for the 'best friend' declaration...they'd have to work on that. Judging by the smile lingering on John's lips, it was a perfect day according to him, too.


	17. It has to do with sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing.

 

The following day brought, once again, Sherlock to John’s doorstep. “You liked it yesterday,” the sleuth declared as soon as he came in.

“You liked it too. It wasn’t just work,” John bit back, not denying it. He had loved yesterday, to be precise.

“Of course, why would I do a job I hate? Really, most people are so dull,” the detective admitted with a shrug. “But since you liked it, I was wondering if you might want to come along on another case.”

“Don’t tell me you’re breaking into yet _another_ military base,” John pleaded, sighing heavily. He really, really hoped such wasn’t the case.

“Oh no, but a friend with a gun would never go amiss in my line of work, you see. And I think you’ll find this case noteworthy too, as most of the cases I take,” Sherlock replied honestly.

“Locum work means that I’m not needed at the hospital today either, so you’re in luck. I’ll take the bait – tell me about this case of yours,” the doctor said, smiling.

“It’s blackmail. Well, not exactly yet. However, someone – very high up, you see – has been requiring the professional services of a sex worker. A dominatrix, to be precise. Irene Adler, nickname the Woman – with a capital W. And last time, when my client was bound and unable to protest, the woman in question took a number of photos. Obviously, my client is concerned about the use she might do of such compromising material,” the sleuth explained.

“Would the investigation somewhat require us infiltrating some shady sex dungeon...hopefully?” John asked with a wide grin.

“Unlikely. I’ll certainly endeavour not to.” Sherlock scrunched up his nose in distaste, like he found the idea unsanitary and John’s playful hopefulness unconceivable. “And besides, after yesterday I thought you’d like giving rather than taking orders.”

“Can’t we all take turns playing this game like good kids?” the doctor replied, still smiling.

“I’m starting to wonder if it is a good idea to bring you along,” the sleuth bit back sternly. “It seems that you tend to be very easily distracted.”

“Oh, come on! You wanted company. I hardly think you’d need a gun against an escort. I don’t have anything to do today either. If I promise not to do anything I wouldn’t have done on the front in Afghanistan you’ll let me tag along, right?” John replied. It was in Afghanistan that he’d earned the nickname Three Continents Watson, but Sherlock didn’t need to know that.

“If you’re going to behave professionally, fine. Besides, if you don’t someone is going to be very disappointed,” the detective said.

“And who could that be? You?” the doctor guessed, eyes crinkling in mirth.

“Oh no, not me. Your good friend, Jim Moriarty. However particularly resourceful he revealed himself to be yesterday, I’d really rather not have him intruding in any more of my cases,” the sleuth explained.

“Oh, Jim wouldn’t…” the doctor hurried to reassure. Would he? Jim had ruined John’s date only because of the game, right? To protect him. Not out of jealousy, however much he joked about that. He wouldn’t really except to John flirting around, would he? (Then again, no matter what he hoped, scoring with a sex worker would probably be above his possibilities). “Are we going, then?” he added, eager for the new adventure.

“Yes. We’ll make a stop at my house, though. I need to disguise myself,” the detective announced. Whatever John had expected as disguise (maybe something to make Sherlock look part of the D/S scene?) he didn’t expect the sleuth to come out dressed as a priest. Did he want to make her repent? “Harmless little lamb,” Sherlock explained, when faced with his friend’s raised eyebrow.

“Or a colleague who didn’t have time to change after roleplaying. I don’t think that I’ve seen any priest so good-looking outside the telly.” And no, John wasn’t coming onto him. He was just stating facts and helping his friend adjust his disguise so he wouldn’t get caught.

It was Sherlock’s turn to raise a questioning eyebrow. “You have an odd standard for beauty, John.”

“What? Ask Molly. Or Jim. Or a stranger on the street. Well, maybe ask the stranger when you’re not dressed like that. It’s an odd question for a priest. Post a photo on the web and make a bloody survey,” John blurted out, disbelieving. Sherlock couldn’t be blind to how gorgeous he was, could he? Wasn’t the purpose of the coat to make girls – boys, whatever – swoon?

The sleuth blinked, surprised by his friend’s vehemence. “Anyway – that doesn’t matter now. Work. I’m ready. Are you coming?”

“Of course. I’ll be your chaperon,” the doctor laughed.

They took a cab, but John really didn’t expect Sherlock’s words once they arrived. “Now punch me in the face,” the detective ordered nonchalantly.

“What?” he replied uncomprehendingly.

“Punch me, John!” the sleuth huffed impatiently.

“No!” he bit back. Had the detective lost it? Sherlock didn’t explain himself. He suddenly attacked John, and he didn’t pull his punches, either. The army doctor had reacted almost without conscious thought – and without holding himself back, too.

“Very good, thank you,” the detective said, mirth in his eyes. Why was it that all of John’s friends were bloody nutcases?

Well, at least behind that request there was some reasoning, because now Sherlock went to their potential blackmailer’s house, playing not only “harmless little lamb,” but “terrified, attacked little lamb.”

John had a very hard time not to laugh or clap his hands in admiration at the performance. The stage lost an outstanding actor when Sherlock decided for a career as a detective.

They were both admitted inside – John in the role of the Passing Doctor, which at least he could sustain with ease - he only had to pretend not knowing Sherlock (and now that he thought about it, he didn’t know the man that well). Nobody – not even a sex worker – could apparently be cold-hearted enough to refuse shelter to panicked Father Sherlock.

Their host could though – and she did so – welcome them stark naked and with a predatory smile on her bright red lips. (John had promised to the detective to behave, yes, but – did this woman want them to do so?)

“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, turning a seductive stare on him. “I know what some of your police colleagues like, and they seem to need a lot of de-stressing after dealing with you. I guess I should have to thank you for helping expanding my business. What can I do to repay you?” she uttered, stretching like a feline towards the sleuth. So much for all the pain he had taken with the disguise.

“You have some photos which I was asked to delete, before you were tempted to use them to coerce my client,” Sherlock replied honestly, apparently insensible to the display of sinful temptation before him.

“Blackmail? Me?” Irene laughed throatily, with abandon, as if the idea was the most ridiculous she’d ever heard. “The photos are strictly for my personal enjoyment, I assure you. I would be amenable to erasing them, though… _if_ I could have something else. Can I interest you in a session, Mr. Holmes? Free of charge, of course. Afterwards, I’d erase the photos of your client – or you might do it yourself, if so you wish?”

“Trying to obtain material to blackmail _me_ with is perfectly useless. I don’t care about my reputation, you see,” Sherlock replied evenly.

“I _told_ you, it’s not about blackmail,” Irene chided, clucking her tongue. “It’s about fun.”

“Then I believe we have a volunteer here. And it’s not me,” the sleuth said, nodding towards his companion.

“Is that why you keep him around? Sex? He’s well built, I’ll give you that, but he’s not the one with the otherworldly cheekbones,” the Woman declared, licking her lips.

“No, we’re not like that…” John felt compelled to explain. Irene didn’t reply to that, but turned a stare on him that clearly said, ‘do I look like I care?’.

“I’m afraid that I’ll have to decline,” the detective answered, so very politely.

“Then how do you want to obtain you wish?” she asked, curious and clearly interested. “I would make it good for you, you know. I wouldn’t need to blackmail anyone. You would _want_ to do my bidding afterwards, if I ever needed to ask you something.”

“I highly doubt it,” Sherlock replied disdainfully.

“Oh, you would. You think that you’re immune to these things, do you, Father Holmes?” she mocked. “Let me tell you a secret. Not even you are immune to magic.”

Sherlock openly scoffed at that. John smirked. Magic? Is that how they were calling things these days?

“Once I understand what one person likes, he or she becomes mine. Mine to control, mine to command, mine to _know._ I bet you would like that, too,” Irene declared proudly. “I don’t need blackmail. I only need to send a text. But I don’t like to abuse my power if I could help it.”

“How very kind of you,” the sleuth countered sarcastically. “With so many high profile clients, why would you want to add me to your collection?”

Because brainy is the new sexy,” the Woman said, grinning, “and besides, I am in need of a detective. There are a few people I need to find – before they find me.”

“Why didn’t you simply come to me?” Sherlock asked. People acting unreasonably irked him.

“Because you don’t believe in magic,” Irene replied with a shrug.

“I believe in what can be proved, no matter how improbable, Miss Adler. But I don’t think that you have evidence for your supposed powers,” the sleuth challenged with a smirk.  


	18. Facing the woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.

Irene laughed throatily. “You want proof of my powers, Mr. Holmes? The minister of economy has an interview coming up in a hour. What would you like me to make him say?”

“That’d be consistent with the issue of blackmail we were discussing, madame,” Sherlock pointed out coldly.

She scoffed. “Fine. Is forewarning the future consistent with blackmail, too? I’ll give you a list of my clients. You pick one and I’ll tell you what he – or she – is going to do the following day. Run all the check-ups you want. If I’m right thrice, would you believe in my magic and work for me with an open mind?”

“ _If_ you would do so, it would be a start in the right direction,” the sleuth admitted.

She fished her mobile phone from under a cushion of the sofa she was languidly stretched on. “I’d think twice about trying to end things by taking this from me with brute force,” the Woman pointed out quietly. “I practice seven martial arts, and even if you overpower me you’d never be able to leave. Kate, the girl who opened the door for you, can get quite…protective. She belonged to Mossad before I picked her up.”

“We’re all civil people here, but why take the phone at all?” the detective queried, curious. “Do you have so many clients that you need this to give me a list? I was duly informed that your services were rather…exclusive.”

“Not as exclusive as you probably think.” Irene shrugged. “I do really enjoy having people under my thumb. But I need this because it’s my magic wand.” She winked.

_What an odd way to define it_ , John thought. He had a feeling that he’d been forgotten by the other two extraordinary people in the room, but at least he was getting a nice show.

The Woman’s odd words seemed to make sudden sense to Sherlock, because he replied, “That’s the instrument you control people with and by which you know their actions in advance.”

_Wait_ , thought John, _what’s he saying? That rang a bell._

The detective pouted. “Is everyone in England playing this stupid, boring game?” he whined.

“You’re playing,” Irene stated, with hints of fear in her eyes. “No, wait, not you, someone you know. Your little lover perhaps?” Her hands flew on the mobile phone’s keyboard.

“Guilty as charged,” John admitted with a shrug, not seeing the point in denying it – she was used to reading people, and he’d always been shit at lying. He took out his gun. “Look, I really didn’t plan to use this today and I’m definitely not feeling murderous, so maybe if you let us destroy your phone? I’ve never done that and I was thinking there might be a chance that you might be safe that way.” He didn’t believe it very much, but he simply couldn’t be sure. If it could make her give up with no fuss, it would be perfect.

Irene leapt out of the sofa and ducked for cover behind it, and even if John could have shot her down thrice in the meantime he didn’t. it would have been a shame pity to kill her – she was so beautiful – and he wasn’t fostering a habit of murdering naked women, and after all what could she do? She’d have to realize that they had the upper hand and hand over her phone.

…John should have left all thinking to Sherlock, who was indeed frowning at his stillness. It turned out that Irene could do a great many things with her mobile phone, because seconds later three people ran in, from two different doors, blazing guns of their own.

“Sorry to have woken you up so soon, pets. But I need a little help here. I am sure that I do not have to explain. Deal with the threat,” Irene said, from her safe place.

The three men nodded tersely, aiming at John. With just one weapon, what could the former soldier do? These people weren’t only armed, they looked like they were trained in military themselves. The doctor really thought that his chivalry was going to be the death of him. He had a fleeting wish for Jim to prove that he had followed him, after all, and come in to even out the teams and overturn the situation with a brilliant, mad initiative, as it was his forte. But that was too much to hope for.

What John didn’t expect was Sherlock suddenly moving to straddle his hips and trying to act like a human shield for all he was worth. “Now everyone calm down and wait a moment,” the sleuth ordered, his voice a tad more shrill than his usual rumble. “No need to act hastily,” he added, after having cleared his throat, “Miss…no, Mistress Adler, that’s your proper title, isn’t it? You wanted my help. I am offering it.”

“You’ve already helped, love. You’ve delivered in my hands one of my enemies,” she purred. She was still prudently hidden – just in case John thought it was worth it to take a shot at her despite that being probably the last thing he’d do in his life – but they could hear the smile in her words.

“Just one. You wanted all of them. You _know_ that I can give you all of them. And I would – but in exchange for that, you’d have to wait before killing my friend John here. And, to be honest, I could do even better than winning you this game. But perhaps you wouldn’t be interested in that,” Sherlock offered, teasing her.

“Better than becoming a goddess, worshipped by everyone?” The Woman chuckled warmly.

“Definitely not everyone – not even by many, if you followed your predecessor’s path. But yes, I could show you a power greater than that of your God. However, I don’t know if you could wield it,” the detective challenged. “That, of course, would be in exchange for my friend’s continued survival.”

“You talk big, Mr. Holmes. Now it’s your turn to prove yourself. So, come here and show me,” Irene quipped.

“I’d rather we do this in private,” the sleuth countered, a bit hesitantly. He didn’t want to irritate her.

“Why? Can’t _perform_ here? Too many guns out are making it _hard_ for you to think clearly?” she bit back, then laughed at her own joke. It was evident from the company he kept that the poor boy had a military kink a mile wide. This should be one of his dreams as far as roleplaying went – or a start of one, at least. She wouldn’t be surprised if this situation turned him on more than a bit.

“Maybe,” the detective admitted honestly – the Woman liked that – his voice strangled. “And talking about weapons, John, do put down yours. It’s going to do you no good now,” he added tersely.

It went against every instinct John had, but he _was_ outgunned here and Sherlock was bargaining for his life and the least he could do was obey him him. So he did.

Irene stretched from behind the sofa and smirked at the detective, seeing his gorgeous cheekbones still splotched red – no doubt the result of her earlier taunts. She felt utterly smug. The Woman called the sleuth to herself with a dainty finger. “Let’s settle this between you and me then, pet. Oh, and Kate, I should think. I trust that you don’t object to her presence? She doesn’t need any distracting weapons to make sure you behave.”

“Whatever you wish.” The sleuth shrugged.

If the blog had told John that Sherlock would have a private encounter with two beautiful women – at least one of which entirely naked – he’d been envious, in a good-natured way. But now he was mostly worried. “Sherlock,” he said in a warning tone, barely reining in the instinct to keep him flush against himself instead of letting him go.

“I’ll scream if I need help, John,” the sleuth promised.

“Oh, I would stay put if I was you, doctor,” Irene interjected. “Boys, make sure that he doesn’t take any initiatives, would you?” The three nodded eagerly, and with a last smile to them the Woman left, the detective on her wake.

“So you do whatever she tells you,” John remarked airily to his captors, once they were alone. He was mad for riling them up, but if he didn’t take his mind off from what she could be doing to his friend – he really didn’t like the implications of her last words – he was going to go crazy.

“You would too, if she deigned you of her attention,” one of the men guarding him replied.

“Probably,” the doctor agreed, cheerful. It was all the effect of her blog, right? He didn’t think he would be immune…or would he? Did having a blog of his own count as protection against others’ powers? And why hadn’t he gotten a DEAD END warning this morning? At which point had their future changed? He’d never know.

“Tony,” another one – apparently higher in rank – grumbled in warning against the man who’d answered John.

“Oh come on. I’m not taking initiatives. I’m chatting. She didn’t say I couldn’t,” the doctor protested.

“She didn’t say you could,” number two countered.

John huffed, but conceded and shut up. No need to irk the people fingering their triggers. Then, a heavy silence fell, while the only thing he could do was vainly trying to eavesdrop any noises from the rest of the house. He heard nothing – no screams, too. Surely that was good? He couldn’t relax, though, and oddly enough, not because of the guns trained on him. These were old friends. It was only Sherlock that occupied his thoughts.

After about twenty seemingly eternal minutes, John saw the men surrounding him blink, and looking like they’d like to shake their heads to get rid of an internal fog. They watched their guns and John alternatively a tad dazedly, as if hoping for an explanation

…And just then Sherlock came back, blissfully seeming fine, and stated, “Yes, thank you, gentlemen, that’d be all. I’ll take over the proceedings from here on.”

“What?” the second man replied.

“I’d get back to headquarters before they start missing you. You don’t want that, do you? Really, thank you for your help, but it’s not needed anymore,” the sleuth replied forcefully.

To John’s surprise, the men actually left without a fuss at that. “How?” the doctor said, admiration clear in his voice.

“They were bound to be confused. Anyone who appeared to be in charge and know what was happening would have had their obedience,” the detective said with a shrug.

“What about Irene?” John queried, still half nervous about the Woman and what she could have done.

“I cheated her and managed to destroy her mobile phone,” Sherlock revealed calmly.

“And?” the doctor asked, curious. He still didn’t know what would happen in such a situation.

“She disappeared. Definitely. You won’t have to worry about her anymore, John,” the sleuth explained with a grimace of distaste.

“Oh,” John breathed, a bit disappointed. He’d expected something of the sort, of course, but still he had half hoped that there would be at least a chance of winning without hurting anyone. “I…thank you. I’m sorry I got you involved in all this – another game, and that you…had to do that. Protecting me, and causing someone’s death, and just everything,” he added softly. It was a thing when Jim saved him – he played, so he was saving himself too - but first kill (well, he assumed first) was always a shock and Sherlock shouldn’t have had to lose his innocence for him.

“ _I_ got _you_ involved in this, not the opposite, John. Are you sure to be fine? The least I could do was to make sure to see you through this. I could never have forgiven myself otherwise,” Sherlock replied with a wan smile.


	19. A discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own a single thing. So don’t sue.

It didn’t surprise John too much when that afternoon someone rang his bell – and it turned out to be Kate, the Mossad girl. Not because he’d read about it in his blog – he’d actually forgotten to check it, thinking that the day couldn’t get any more stressful – but because someone with her contacts could only too easily find anyone she wanted.

But she wasn’t under the spell of Irene’s blog anymore, so it should be safe, right? Maybe the woman wanted some sort of explanation about what had happened. Unless she had been really in love with her mistress. Could it even happen, considering the blog would be messing with her mind? If so, John had always his gun – and this time, chivalry or not, he’d really shoot a woman. He quite liked surviving, thank you very much. He’d have to hide the body afterwards, too, because this one didn’t have a blog of her own and wouldn’t conveniently disappear. Oh bugger. Maybe Jim could help him out? _Let’s hope she has peaceful intentions,_ he thought.

Kate smiled at him upon entering. “Hello, doctor. I am here on somebody else’s account, and that person holds a secret that she thinks you have a right to know, as it might be important to your own survival. I hope that you will believe us, even if it goes against the laws of the world as you know them.”

“I have an open mind,” John assured her. It seemed that they were going to talk about the game. Could his guest have a blog, too? ...Sherlock couldn’t have lied to him when he’d told that Irene was out of the picture. He was a friend and wouldn’t betray him…would he? Kate (was that even her name) did say that she represented someone else, and who could she be standing for if not the dominatrix? “Tea?” the doctor said, instead of voicing his worries.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied politely. As soon as she had a cup in front of her, Kate told him, not beating around the bush, “As you’ve probably figured out, I’m here in Irene’s stead. We thought that it would be safer for her to lay low for a while, otherwise she would have come herself. It turned out that our love had nothing to do with the blog controlling me – as she herself had surmised at first – and this little favour was the least I could do for her.”

John tensed up. Was he going to be attacked now? Irene was indeed alive – he’d been tricked. That hurt more than the potential danger to his life right now.

Kate noticed, of course. “Oh, relax!” she huffed. “I’m here to help you out, not threaten you. There’s something that you should really know about your partner – something dealing with his activities ‘in private’ with Irene this morning.”

“I _don’t care_ ,” John groused, “and he’s _not_ my partner. Probably not even a friend.” Had Irene sent her to flaunt that Sherlock had betrayed him, believing them to be together? Why do that instead of trying to kill him? It made absolutely no sense.

“I can’t answer that for you, but you should care about what he’s done. You really, really should,” the woman countered.

“Fine, I’ll take the bait. What has Sherlock done then?” John queried, annoyed. She wouldn’t leave him in peace until she’d said her piece, clearly.

“He has tinkered with Irene’s phone. After he was done with it, he destroyed the phone, before we could stop him. A black hole opened…but instead of taking Irene away, it engulfed her tablet. Apparently, Sherlock is able to override the blog’s mechanism…and drop people out of the game without their death,” Kate revealed, her voice soft.

“He must have loved her very much to try so hard to save her from the threats against her life,” John replied, his voice equally soft.

She snorted. “Love? That wasn’t love at all. He toyed with her life. He took risks that were totally unacceptable – what if he hadn’t managed to do what he intended?” she hissed, incensed.

“I’m surprised that she let him get anywhere close to her mobile phone. I thought he was my friend, and I didn’t let him experiment on it. does Irene have no common sense?” the doctor couldn’t help but ask.

“About that…I’m afraid that Irene has a terrible weak spot for clever people. He had promised her to overcome Dyaus with only his brain and she just *had* to see if it was possible,” Kate admitted, sounding rueful. That the Woman could value being dazzled by the sleuth’s brilliance more than her own survival surely had to be a sore spot for Kate, since she loved her.

It wouldn’t surprise John if she was terribly jealous of the detective. Should John warn him despite being lied to about the game – which, to be honest, would probably always rankle. The game was important. Like his guest had pointed out, his very survival was challenged by Dyaus’ contest – and by lying, Sherlock had implicitly refused to save him.

Kate clearly read his thoughts on the doctor’s face, because she huffed, “Don’t you worry about your friend,” (at least she hadn’t called Sherlock his partner anymore). “I’m not going to touch him. I’ll be too busy taking care of Irene and making sure that she disappears for a while. You know, just in case someone had identified her already and didn’t get the memo about her not playing anymore. True, we didn’t get any dead ends, but you can never be too careful.”

“Of course, that makes sense. Then, good luck. And thank you for the info,” John agreed, nodding.

“You could have shot her, but you didn’t,” Kate replied, smiling blindingly at him. “We owed you, doctor Watson.”

“I wish the two of you the best. This world needs more happy endings,” he said with a smile of his own.

“We’ll certainly endeavour to. But really, we’ll be happy as long as we’re together. Good luck to you too – and act wisely.”

“Thank you, I will,” John assured her. She said goodbye and left with a last smile.

John was trying to decide if it was worth it to immediately call Sherlock and tell him exactly what he thought about being tricked or if it would be better trying to cool down first, when the choice was taken from him. His bell rang once again, and Jim’s voice called, “Do open up, Johnny. I have cookies!”

Naturally, John let him in. Maybe being distracted by Jim was exactly what he needed. “Let me make a fresh pot of tea, then,” the doctor said, having welcomed his friend in. The cookies were chocolate ones – his favourites (of course Jim would know that).

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re purposefully trying to rile me up by making me jealous, Johnny. Let me tell you – you don’t need to toy with my feelings like this. It’s really not the best course of action,” Jim said, following him into the kitchen.

“What?” the doctor replied, almost letting go of the teapot, so surprised he was by both the accusation and the thinly veiled threat. What was Jim on?

“You know I don’t like that Holmes git. And lately you’re spending all your free time with him. He only has to whistle for you to follow obediently,” Moriarty explained, with a pout.

“Hey, I resent that. I’m not some sort of…pet,” John growled – which didn’t help his case much, actually.

“Aren’t you?” Jim challenged, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“That attitude isn’t helping you any, Jim. If you have to know, I’m annoyed at Sherlock now. _Very_ annoyed. But I’m certainly not letting you decide whom I can spend my time with. You wouldn’t have that right even if you actually _were_ my boyfriend, which you certainly aren’t,” the doctor declared vehemently.

Jim smiled genially. “Ah but we’re working on that, aren’t we? I have faith in you, Johnny. You’ll see sense someday. You have already started to see Holmes for the insufferable creature he is. You might be a bit slow, but you eventually arrive to the inevitable conclusion.”

“I said that I was very annoyed with him, not that I hated his guts. With the way you’re behaving, I’m on the brink of saying the very same thing about you, Jim. Well, maybe not at the same level. What he’s done really hurt me, and no, I’m not sharing – you probably know either way. But honestly, it seems to me that you’re doing your very best to be unbearable yourself. I’m not gay, Jim. How many times will I have to tell you that? We’re such good friends. Isn’t that enough?” John sighed tiredly.

“For now. I apologize, I didn’t mean to make you angry at me, Johnny. But the thought of you with him, and that you might like him better than me if this goes on…it hurts,” Jim whined pathetically.

“Did that blog of yours tell you that I missed you while I was with Sherlock – for a bit?” the doctor replied kindly.

Jim’s eyes shone with happiness. “You could have texted! I would have come, no matter what!” he declared emphatically.

“I was sort of preoccupied. On a case, we stumbled upon another contestant for Dyaus’ game and had to get rid of her.” John didn’t say a word about what Sherlock had done. He couldn’t ensure Jim’s safety – to drop him out of the game – until he had a serious talk with the sleuth and confirmed that he’d be amenable to saving them. Hopefully, Jim’s blog had mentioned Kate but not the exact words of their conversation. Things would be very awkward otherwise, if Jim asked for it before John could offer.

“You played the game without me?” the tech countered, once again the hint of a whine in his words.

“I didn’t do that on purpose, or to slight you, Jim. But she was playing with us, and I had to do my best to survive. If I had asked permission to call for backup, do you think she’d have agreed?” John replied, rolling his eyes. “I met her by chance, I swear.”

“Of course you had to play to survive, Johnny. You can’t not survive. But I don’t believe in chance. I’m gonna file a complaint with Mormor,” Moriarty said, looking seriously cross – hopefully with the supernatural creature.

“You can try.” John didn’t laugh at his friend, not wanting to irk him further. But he doubted seriously that the imp would care about Jim’s protests.


	20. Explanations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing. I claim - instead - all oocness in this chapter. My beta tried so very hard, but couldn’t make me behave. I am too stubborn.

Sherlock’s lies rankled. Very much so. John, after Jim left, tried to rationalise them – to find some sort of justification for his…friend’s (was he even one) behaviour. He failed. The urge to go see him and ask what the hell was he thinking was strong, but he resisted it at first. It would do no good to attack Sherlock, and he felt perilously close to that. What’s more, the sleuth didn’t exactly owe him an explanation – he certainly didn’t answer to him – and yet John ached for one. But then he remembered the old adage  about not letting the sun set on one’s anger, so John gave up and all but marched to the detective’s house.

“I didn’t expect to see you again today. Missing me already?” the sleuth teased cheekily, welcoming him in.

John raised a very not amused eyebrow. “Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to have to come – I always skim over the blog in the worst way. But something happened, so…”

“Something you need to consult me over? Do you have a case for me, John?” Sherlock’s eyes shone with eagerness.

“Not exactly. Not a new case, at least. But I got a visit. By Irene Adler’s lover-slash-bodyguard,” the doctor revealed coldly.

“Ah,” the sleuth breathed, clearly uncomfortable. “She told you.”

“She felt that she owed me for not shooting Irene when I could,” John explained needlessly. “So yes, she told me.” Belligerent, he added, “Why did you lie to me? No, wait, let me rephrase that: what the fuck were you thinking, Sherlock?”

“Lying to you was the most expedite way to save us a boring discussion, with you asking what I won’t give. It was simpler. Or it would have been without Irene’s meddling,” the detective stated, clearly annoyed with the Woman.

“I thought we were friends,” John said, a deep tinge of sadness and disappointment in his voice.

“We are – John, we _are_ ,” Sherlock assured quickly.

“No, we’re not,” the doctor rebuked vehemently. “My bloody life is on the line in Dyaus’ mad game, Sherlock. And you can save me, but you won’t. Friends help each other. Friends save each other, if they’re able. You’re refusing to.”

“I have my reasons, John, but believe me – it’s not because I wish to see you dead. Never that. it would be a horrific inconvenience,” the sleuth said softly, with a little shiver at such a prospect.

It didn’t mellow John much. “If you have reasons – which I find honestly hard to believe – let’s hear them. I don’t even want to become a God, you know that, right? You’re not refusing to help not to take away my chances of victory, or something equally asinine?”

“I know perfectly well that you don’t want to be a God. But John, that’s the crux of the problem: _I_ want you to be a God. I can’t very well drop you out of the game then, can I?” the detective revealed with a shrug.

“You want me to be a God,” the doctor repeated dumbly. “Why would you? I’m definitely not God material.”

“I strongly beg to differ. Look, it was really hard for me to accept the existence of a deity in the first place. But you gave me no choice with your evidence – and to be honest, it terrified me. That any being could hold that much power over us – over _me_ , that he could toy with anyone’s life if He – or She – so choose.”

“I understand,” John cut in. “Well, not entirely, it wasn’t like this for me at the start. I mean, it was definitely a shock, but since at the beginning Dyaus’ servant seemed busy keeping me alive, I was too busy being grateful to be irritated or scared about God meddling in people’s lives. But when the game started – I admit that I have questioned what Dyaus was bloody thinking and how he dared many times. I’ve never thought about what sort of God the other contestants could turn out to be, though. I only knew that it was a rather too big of a responsibility for me, but my interest is mainly survival, so that’s why I got so angry when you refused.”

“At the very least you maintain some sense of responsibility, not considering to use your powers to fulfil your wishes or amuse yourself or something of the sort. Truth is, if I have to trust my destiny to anyone and worship anyone at all, you’re the only human being I can imagine in that role.”

The doctor blushed. “I don’t think anyone ever gave me a compliment quite so big.”

“It’s not a compliment, John,” the detective replied quietly. “I’m just being logical, really. God is supposed to be entirely good, not only all powerful, at least that’s how I’ve been brought up to believe, and you’re the person I know that gets the closest to that ideal. I strongly doubt that any of the other contestants would be even half as good as you are.”

“Oh, I do have my own flaws,” John objected quickly, blushing even harder at that.

“Of course. You’re a human being still. But I pride myself in observing people, and you wouldn’t go out of your way to torment someone,” Sherlock stated, after a sharp, searching look – as if he needed to confirm his own assumptions (what detail could give that away?).

“Obviously I’m not. But that only makes me a decent human being. Nothing special.”

“You would probably be surprised at how few people are ‘decent’ – in your words – given the right conditions,” Sherlock remarked.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said.

“Why?” the sleuth queried, raising a puzzled eyebrow.

“You sound as if you’re speaking from personal experience,” John pointed out.

“I am, but it doesn’t concern you. You’re not at fault,” the detective replied. He didn’t seem to get it.

“I know that I’m not, but I wish that you didn’t have to go through it. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurt. And I’m sorry that we didn’t know each other back then. You could have depended on me,” the doctor explained earnestly.

“I don’t need protection, I can hold my own. I’m not a damsel in distress. Not right now, not back then,” Sherlock bit back sharply.

“Of course you’re not. I never said you were. It doesn’t mean that you can’t have help from a friend,” John uttered placatingly.

That sentence gained a small smile from the sleuth. “Are we friends, then?” he asked, a tinge of eagerness in his voice.

“Your explanation was very satisfying, so yes, I would say that we are definitely friends. I am sorry that I doubted you, but well…I couldn’t explain your actions and assumed the worst,” the doctor assured, smiling back widely.

“I thought that my reasons would have been all too obvious,” the detective huffed, wordlessly but very clearly getting across the message, “You’re so _slow_!”

“How could have I known that you thought so highly of me?” John replied in justification, still not a little amazed at the fact.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock bit back, shrugging as if worshipping John was indeed the most natural thing.

“Thank you,” John said softly.

“You’re very welcome, my dear. As I said, I won’t drop you out of the game. But I hope that you know, John, that anything else at all that you might need I would be glad to assist you with. Especially regarding the game. Who knows, maybe now that you can offer them an alternative to death the other contestants will be more inclined to acknowledge that as a deity you’d be a far better option than any of them,” the detective stated, eyes alight with admiration for his friend.

“Maybe. I wouldn’t count on everyone being willing to let me go on, though. It might not be a huge temptation for me, but some of them might be a lot more keen on winning the game,” the doctor remarked. He was utterly grateful to Sherlock for giving him a chance not to kill these strangers. John had never liked the concept behind the game in the first place.

“Which is the very reason they shouldn’t be allowed to,” Sherlock countered, smirking. “Well, it doesn’t matter. If they try to murder you, we’ll kill them in turn. Self-defence. Nobody could blame us,” the sleuth stated nonchalantly.

“We?” John echoed, mildly surprised. Sherlock’s offer to drop people from the game for him had been a kind move, but that he wanted to be involved even in the murderous parts of it…well, John would have liked better to spare him that.

“Of course John. Do keep up please. Anyway, it seems that I can’t take a case lately without one of your rivals popping up. The lot of you are everywhere, apparently. So it’s better if I were involved officially in this madness. I thought…I thought that we could be a team,” Sherlock said, voice snappy at the start but ending on a hesitant note.

“I would like that,” the doctor hurried to assure. “We could be a fantastic team.” Not just because thanks to Sherlock they could bypass the most basic of Dyaus’ rules and implicitly say fuck you to the sadistic God who was toying with his life. The detective was bloody brilliant and John loved brilliant people and didn’t ask anything else than be allowed to stay at their side. Sherlock, Jim…he wasn’t picky. Oh, on that matter… “You’ll have to do me a favour – save Jim from the game,” John said lightly.

“Jim? Jim Moriarty? Does he play too?” the sleuth asked, apparently surprised. But that made no sense.

“Of course he does. I thought it would have been clarified to you considering what happened at Baskerville. Forgotten it already, Sherlock?” the doctor teased gently.

“I thought he was like me, faking to be a contestant to fool Stapleton, maybe. He looked as if he was on the protect John Watson team, too. If he played that game, why didn’t he make any attempts against your life yet?” the detective queried, clearly puzzled by such an inconsistency of behaviour from the IT tech.

“Because we’re friends, that’s why. Best friends, even,” John replied, tone a tad more sharp than he intended. “We meant to beat the game together and then discuss our options…or lack of them, really, but now that you’re in the picture there’s no need for Jim to be in danger any longer.”

“And what is Jim’s blog about?” the sleuth inquired, curious.

The doctor blushed lightly and then confessed, “Me. He’s kinda stalking me through it. Though that has allowed him to save my life more than once, so I can’t exactly complain about it.”

“Then he won’t want to lose the means to keep doing so,” Sherlock remarked. “And I too am less inclined to lose a useful ally in making sure you win. I can drop him anytime, and I certainly will – just a bit later.”

“And what if Jim gets killed in the meantime?” John bit back sharply, frowning.

“I thought friends were supposed to trust friends’ abilities. He doesn’t look at all easy to kill – he has brain, and uses it, for a change,” the detective scolded. Such a sentence only made John frown all the harder, but before he could protest loudly, the sleuth sighed with a very put upon air and huffed, “Fine. I’ll drop him off the game – if he wants. I will allow anyone who asks to leave the game. Or do you want even more? Do you propose that we ‘save’ even the ones who want to play? I’m quite good at procuring stuff. I might steal the contestants’ phones and disconnect them before they even realize.”

“Pickpocketing, forgery…you’re a model citizen, uh?” the doctor remarked, grinning widely.

“As I told you, studying criminals one tends to learn a few tricks,” Sherlock replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

“To answer you, no, I don’t think we should disconnect people by force or using trickery. They might attack us all the same in revenge, and if we were forced to kill them in self-defence then their bodies wouldn’t conveniently disappear. Though I can’t imagine many people refusing the offer you have for them, Sherlock – almost any, to be honest. I think we’re taking the game so seriously only because of basic survival instinct,” John explained.

Sherlock sighed, “Only you, John, could not see the appeal of immense power on the average bloke. I know it is because you’re honestly untouched by its charm. But do you see, now, why I claim that you

have attained godlike levels of goodness? You are at the very least a saint, my dear friend.”

“I’m really not,” John protested, embarrassed. The sleuth only smiled, clearly unconvinced.              

 


	21. Molly's secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not owning anything.

Jim was furious. He’d told John how jealous he had been, and the doctor had even reassured him…only to run back to the amateur detective’s side right after. How dare him? That amounted to making fun of Jim, and he very much didn’t appreciate being mocked. It wasn’t like John could hope that his misbehaviour would stay hidden…no, he really didn’t care either way.

The tech was tempted to storm back in at John’s apartment, and maybe ransack the place, but that would solve nothing. He needed a plan. He needed something that would leave an impression and drive the point home.

But for now, he needed a distraction. He texted his girlfriend. Molly, always accommodating, who invited him to the lab – she had a night shift – promising that they’d have coffee and Jim could rant at her. There wasn’t much to do and she’d be glad to see him.

Jim was in dire need of a bit of sympathy, and he heeded over there immediately. He entered the lab holding two cups of coffee, one just as she liked hers, and moaning loudly, “I _hate_ Sherlock Holmes.”

“What has he done now?” Molly queried, sighing and accepting gratefully the cup destined to her. She took a little sip.

“John is _mine_ ,” Jim declared petulantly.

“Yours?” she echoed, surprised. “How come, Jim?”

“He’s mine,” the tech repeated. “My…best friend, and Sherlock is trying to steal him. Well, he can’t!” He crossed his arms angrily.

Molly couldn’t really help it – she laughed. “Oh Jim, dear, it doesn’t work like that. Nobody can steal friends, especially best friends. They care for you no matter what, and nobody can get them to stop. I promise,” she assured him.

“Impossible to steal. Easy for you to say, Molls. You weren’t there. You haven’t seen the both of them together…how easy it would be for Holmes to become John’s whole world. How positively addicted to him our little doctor can become. It isn’t only my position as friend that is threatened. It wouldn’t surprise me if they hook up in a few days,” Jim grumbled, pacing restlessly.

“Hook up? As in become a couple? But that’s impossible, Jim. Don’t be silly. Sherlock is not gay,” Molly objected.

Jim snorted loudly. “Sorry to break it to you princess, but he is very much so. Otherwise he’d have had you long ago, if only for a pity fuck. But he simply can’t bring himself to touch a woman like that.”

“Liar!” Molly cried out. “Why are you so cruel tonight?” There were tears in her eyes, even if they didn’t fall.

“Look, I apologize, love. That wasn’t the way to say it, I can agree on that. I am really cranky tonight, that’s why I’ve been so rude to you. Sorry. But it is true. In your heart, you must know it is true. Why would he have ignored one so wonderful as yourself if not so? Hell, I expected you to realize it months ago!” the tech replied.

She sniffled a bit, sad but flattered by his words. “I’m still not entirely convinced that Sherlock is gay. And even if he was, John is not, either. They won’t become a couple,” she said stubbornly.

“Or at least so he likes to repeat. I wouldn’t want to fall for bi-erasure myself, though. You haven’t seen the both of them together, Molls. They just click. And that’s utterly wrong. It should be us – John and I. Sherlock is only an annoying, entirely useless third wheel trying to steal my spot. Something needs to be done about that. It can’t be allowed to continue. I’m sure you agree,” Jim complained, voice growing sharp.

“I don’t want Sherlock to fall in love with anyone else,” she admitted, blushing in shame, “but I don’t think we can do anything. Feelings are out of anyone’s control, after all.”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Jim promised darkly, grinning in a slightly manic manner that gave her the shivers. “Never fear, my dear. Say, I need to check out something for an idea I’ve got and I’ve forgotten my mobile phone – yes, I know, so silly of me. Can I use yours, please?” That was a lie, but he needed to distract himself to give his subconscious time to elaborate a good plan, and snooping around in Molly’s phone was as good an entertainment as any other.

She visibly tensed up, suddenly going rigid and replying quickly, “I forgot it too. I suppose we really match, Jim,” with a weak laugh.

“Now that’s odd, Molls, because I can see its outline in your coat pocket,” he pointed out with a smirk. “You know you can trust me, right? Whatever dark secrets are hidden in your phone, I won’t judge you, I promise. Not if you’re silly…and not even if you’re breaking the law, which I don’t think you’re the type to do anyway. I just need it a minute. Come on!”

Blushing brightly at being caught in her lie, she took the phone and handed it over reluctantly. “Careful with this,” she warned seriously.

“Of course. Need I remind you that I’m in IT department?” Jim bit back with a shrug. She nodded, acknowledging his expertise. Of course, that meant that he had to investigate much more accurately than just checking her last whatsapp messages. What did Molly have to hide?

Something he would never have pegged her harmless self as, it turned out. There was a blog, with a pink and fluffy kittens background, but not an ordinary one. A foretelling one. Molly was playing the game, too. Jim could have destroyed the phone in his hands before she – caught off guard – would have the time to react. But what would have been the fun in that? he could do better than kill Molly. He could use her. “I’ll have to complain with Dyaus for playing favourites,” he said. “My blog doesn’t look half as cute as yours,” he pointed out, smirking.

“You play?” the pathologist gasped, lunging to take back her phone. He effortlessly evaded her.

“I do,” he admitted, grinning in delight. “Relax, Molls.”

After another fruitless effort to catch him, she had gone to take one of the lancets that were at hand for autopsies, and ordered in a cold voice, “Put my phone on the table. Gently. And since we’re at that, put your mobile phone on it too. I promise that I’ll just destroy it instead of cutting your throat. There’s no way you don’t have it on yourself if you’re playing. Did you suspect me for long?”

“If I wanted to crush your phone I already would have,” Jim remarked curtly, “this is a show of goodwill, dear.” He put Molly’s phone on the table. She snatched it away quickly.

“As for giving the game up, though…that’s asking a bit much of me, love. Yes, you have a blade. And I have a gun,” he added, showing it and waving it around a bit before training it on Molly. He’d bought it together with the one he’d gifted to John – they matched, which he liked a lot – and never used it before because it would ruin his beloved’s fun knowing he wasn’t the only one with a penchant for  shooting. “About how long I suspected you…that would be telling,” he concluded, winking. Truth was, he’d promised John not to find out the other contestants, and he’d been keeping that promise, so not at all. But any pact he’d made with the doctor was null and void now that he’d been so brazenly betrayed.

Molly recoiled in terror at his mad boyfriend, the lancet falling from her limp hand. “Please, Jim,” she murmured.

“Oh baby girl, you don’t have to beg – although it’s a very nice touch, I’ll admit,” he reassured her, smiling. “Let me ask you something. You must have suspected that Johnny had a blog. He had the best (or worst, depending how you look at it) timing after all. Why didn’t you attack him before?”

“I’m not stupid,” she bit back. “John was a soldier…and I’d rather have him take out a few more contestants before I try to eliminate him. I don’t doubt that he’s better trained for this game than myself.”

“Clever, Molls,” Jim praised, nodding his approval…but still not lowering his gun. “So you see the usefulness in waiting for the right moment by yourself. I’m making you an offer. I’m not feeling too keen on shooting you tonight. Be my partner – my little helper. I have plans – and while you’re not necessary, I’d like very much  for you to be part of them. Of course, that means you’d be taking orders from me. So? What do you say?” he proposed cheerfully.

“If I don’t help I’m useless – worse, I’m a liability, because I could – should, by all rights – be planning your demise. Not that I think I would be good enough to trick you into either surrendering your phone or dying,” the pathologist acknowledged. “I’m not keen on being murdered tonight either, so I’ll have to accept, Jimmy. I’ll be your partner in the game for as long as you’ll have me.”

“I don’t want you only for the game, dear. You see, I’ve always been fond of fairytales – I want my own happy end, Molly. I demand it. and you will do whatever is required for me to reach it. you will profit yourself from my plans, I promise,” the tech explained, a fire she’d never noticed before in his eyes.

“Of course, Jim,” she agreed meekly. “If anyone deserves a happy end, that’s you, just remember that only contestants’ bodies will disappear. I – and the police, sadly – will have to deal with the others.”

Jim laughed. “I know. Don’t worry, you won’t have to work overtime on my account. Not your regular job at least,” he reassured, winking at her.

“That’s good. Thank you, Jim,” she replied politely. Best to keep on his good side. This was a ruthless and maybe crazy murderer. Happy end? Who said such words? They weren’t characters on a movie – and her life was certainly no fairytale. But somehow, he was still not so different from her charming, witty, funny friend turned fake boyfriend. It felt odd to say the least.

“Shall we seal the partnership, then?” Jim proposed, finally putting the gun back in his pocket.

She nodded, extending her hand (she had a feeling that she’d be nodding a lot from now on)…only for Jim to take it and attire her flush against him, kissing her lips. She was used to this, of course, but she didn’t expect it then.

“I might have seen too much Supernatural,” he admitted, laughing. “But it is a pact with the devil you’ve just agreed to, so it seemed to fit.”

“At least it is a handsome devil,” she quipped playfully.

“Clever, Molls. Flattery will get you everywhere,” Jim replied, grinning.

“Hey, if I didn’t honestly think you were good-looking I wouldn’t have used you to make Sherlock jealous,” she bit back. Without a gun in sight, she relaxed and decided to forget what she would soon have to do. Pretend this was just the old Jim, and all was fine. Until…

“First order,” he snapped, “Do not mention Sherlock in my presence anymore.”

“Of course, sorry, Jim,” she agreed. It had been so silly of her to mention someone he hated. If she didn’t remind him of the man, maybe the sleuth would be forgotten instead of murdered for stealing people. At least Molly dearly hoped so.                       

              


	22. Hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still do not own anything.

“I was thinking of getting myself a pet too, Molls, and I suppose your love of felines is catching,” Jim announced, dropping by her home the following afternoon, with no warning and a too wide grin on his face.

“That’s nice to hear, Jim,” she replied, smiling back. Of course she welcomed him in. She was his subordinate now. “Maybe I could accompany you to the shelter I got Toby from.”

“I don’t think I’ll find what I need there. You see, I don’t want a fluffy, tiny, defenceless kitten. Oh no. I want a tiger,” he revealed, ending with a playful roar.

“But that’s illegal, Jim,” Molly pointed out quietly, ever the voice of reason.

“Oh, that’s fine. You see, I don’t want any common tiger cub either. I want _the_ Tiger,” Jim explained, shrugging.

“The criminal that came near the hospital a few days ago?” the pathologist queried, hesitant and incredulous, after a moment.

“I do love you for your brightness, Molls, love. Exactly. The killer. I was thinking that we need someone in our alliance with his certain type of experience. I imagine he’d have a lot to offer for our cause, don’t you think so too?” Jim said, beaming at her and twirling her around in his childish enthusiasm.

“I thought he played,” she remarked, frowning.

“Oh, he does,” the tech agreed, nodding.

“Then isn’t it safer for us to kill him, Jim? He will undoubtedly try to assassinate us, after all. How do you expect him to just go along with your plans?” Molly inquired, all the while petting nervously Toby who’d come rub against her ankles.

“I plan to show him that we can submit him to things worse than death. You’re a pathologist Molls, you should know death in itself can be a blessed rest,” Moriarty explained, with a feral grin. Molly couldn’t contain a little shiver at his words. “You’ll help me out with that, won’t you darling? You pretend to be a tiny little mouse but you’re stronger and more ruthless than you look. You can’t fool me, dearie. I know you,” he added, raising an eyebrow in amused interrogative.

“I don’t have a choice, do I, Jim? I’m your faithful little helper,” she replied meekly.

“That you are, love, but I bet that you will enjoy yourself taming him. Exerting a firm hand on another living being will be a welcome change,” the tech promised, voice dark as sin.

Molly neither agreed nor denied it, choosing instead to redirect the conversation, but a bright blush coloured her cheeks at Jim’s words.

“The man is a wanted criminal, and he’s never been caught. Of course, that’s probably because of his blog. I bet he knows in advance about the police’s moves. If he’s updated on the actions of anyone who might desire capturing him, it could become a serious problem for us. How do you plan to get a hold of him, Jim?” she inquired, very carefully not insinuating that he couldn’t.

“We will hunt him the way people have always hunted down tigers. We offer bait to him and when he comes sniffing close, we strike him down,” Moriarty stated, adding an expressive gesture.

Molly knew she had no say in anything, but she couldn’t help but object, terrified, “Do we really have to do this? Is there no plan B, Jim?”

“Oh no no no, you’re misunderstanding things, Molls. You’re not bait. You’re the hunter. I want you to strike down like a snake and drug him unconscious when he comes to attack me,” the tech explained eagerly.

“How can you be sure that he’ll attack you?” she queried, dubious.

“Because I asked him to, that’s why,” Jim revealed, with a deranged grin. He showed her an email.

_Tiger, or however you like being called, I am a fellow contestant in Dyaus’ game. But this is not a threat, this is a business proposal. I have discovered the identity of another of our adversaries, but I’ve hit a bit of a stump and i could use your experienced hand on this. So I’ll be giving you the details and ‘using’ you as a weapon. Let me know if you want further payment beyond the pleasure of progressing in the game. You might try to trace this email, but trust me and spare yourself a useless endeavour. M._ Details about Jim’s supposed habits followed. “He will undoubtedly strike soon,” the tech remarked, deeply satisfied. “But now. We have an hour I think to teach you to elude the blog.”

“How can I?” Molly queried, interested.

“Ponder other alternatives. Decide to let him kill me, to be free of me, then think you might just tip the police and let them deal with it, then opt for just fleeing the place…change opinion quickly, and the blog won’t be able to keep up with you. Only at the very last moment tell yourself, «I’ll do what Jim asked, after all.» Try it now,” he said, putting a long-bladed knife in her hand. “Attack me with deadly intent, but sort-of on impulse, and let’s see if the dead end warning anticipates you.”

He underestimated her – and it could be his end, Molly thought fleetingly before forcibly chasing away that idea. It took her three tries, but in the end the ring of the new message with the dead end warning came exactly at the same time of her sneak attack. Despite she attacking him from the back, Jim managed to half-turn and block her at the last second. “Do you have eyes on the back of your head?” she wondered plaintively. If she couldn’t surprise even Jim, how was she supposed to take down the Tiger?

“I know you, baby…and Toby got nervous once you leaped suddenly against me,” Jim explained with a light chuckle. “But we won’t bring him along hunting, so all will be well.”

“Oh,” she breathed, relieved, laughing with him. She’d really got the hang of it. Jim had helped her so much in this game – for his own ends, naturally, but still she felt a surge of deep gratefulness towards him. If she could bypass the blogs she suddenly had more chances at winning than anyone else – but her pretend boyfriend, of course, as he knew the trick too. Or maybe he’d shared it with John, too? Anyway, all the other contestants now didn’t stand a chance against her. She highly doubted that they would discover the same thing on their own.

“Now, I’ve told our soon-to-be pet tiger that I always go home from work through one particularly seedy alleyway – the perfect place for an ambush. No one who would care. Only he’ll have no idea we’ll be the one ambushing him instead of the reverse. I was thinking you might pretend to be a hooker – so he’ll notice you without really noticing you, if you get my drift. I brought you the right attire,” Jim proposed, enthusiastic, taking it out from an anonymous bag.

“What if someone else comes and expects me to - you know?” she countered, scared.

“We’ll get you a lancet too, so you can help clients run along. Anyway, you won’t go in much earlier than me, so you’ll have less time to be harassed,” the tech assured her, an answer to every objection. “Now we go to the hospital – you have some things to pick up, mostly drugs, and I need to pretend having come back from work,” he ordered.

She followed him meekly. They quickly ran their respective errands, Molly more than uncomfortably exposed in her attire – a skin-tight deep red dress with a plunging neckline, her back covered only by corset-like laces and a skirt so short it barely covered her privates –  and seeking protection from the stares in her beloved lab coat. Soon after Jim was delighted from receiving not only a dead end warning, but updates too informing him that John would be standing where he died a few hours after that, and figure out whence the shot had come. They had such useful info thanks to his friend’s proneness towards sentiment.

Knowing Sherlock would be with him, set by John to work in solving his murder, was enough to strengthen Jim’s already considerable survival instinct, making him swear to himself that the Tiger would be captured and they would come on top of this. He’d be damned if he’d offered John the excuse to bond further with the damnable detective. “Now we know where he’ll be exactly. Ready Molls?” It’s show time!” he exclaimed gaily.

She shrugged wordlessly, before following him again. She was still very uncomfortable with all this – having to shrug off her coat and go around drugging (luckily not murdering) people – but she was supposed to decide at the last minute anyway. Maybe she’d really let the killer get rid of Jim for her. At least she wouldn’t have to go along with his crazy plans anymore.

When they arrived at the alley where the Tiger was lying in wait, ready to pounce on his victim (well not really – he used bullets, not actual claws, but Molly really liked the feline analogy) she entered it first, as nonchalantly as she could manage.

The pathologist noticed right away the assassin, exactly where he was supposed to be according to John’s future (hopefully never to happen) investigations. She wandered towards him, still keeping a respectable distance. She was deadly afraid, her mind never less inclined than right now to attack him. Still, she inched closer to him, expecting him to bark at her to run along, but he didn’t pay the least attention to her, just like they’d hoped.

Then Jim came strolling in, apparently without a care in the world. (How could he not be tense?) Their killer aimed, and Molly leaped on him, covering his mouth and nose with a chloroform-infused cloth. She might not be a trained warrior, but she did not need to be – he breathed in surprise at being suddenly attacked and that was enough to drop him to the dirty street floor. The Tiger had still managed to shoot, but expecting it, Jim ducked and came whistling towards her.

“Perfect,” he praised warmly. “Now let’s get our sleeping princess out of here. You take his feet, I take his head?”

“Fine,” she agreed. The man was over six feet tall and packed with muscles; she couldn’t expect Jim to manhandle him alone till the car, which they parked blessedly close. Jim was well-organized at least.

She had just successfully kidnapped someone, and Molly found that laughter wanted to erupt from her throat. She was still reeling with adrenaline, and discovered that she liked the feeling more than she’d ever expected to. She gave her boyfriend a naughty smile over the unconscious body of the much feared Tiger, causing Jim to smirk back, and together – huffing at the weight – they started to move their victim.


	23. Taming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not owning anything (so tiresome to repeat it!)  
> WARNING: GRAPHIC TORTURE

 

They brought the Tiger back to Molly’s kingdom – the morgue, empty at the moment – in a body bag, not to raise suspicions. Jim chained him to the cold dissection table and  blindfolded him tightly, and she cut his clothes off. Better to handle him less – less risk of him waking up in the middle of being stripped, still unbound. He could do some  serious damage.

Afterwards, Jim took a cloth and a big jug of water, and started waterboarding him rather cheerfully. That woke him up, choking and spluttering. “Oh, look, our sleeping princess is awake now” the IT expert remarked, grinning.

Their prisoner tugged wildly on his bounds, but they held fast. Nothing but top quality materials for Moriarty’s plans. “So what’s your name, princess? Or do you prefer that we keep calling you pet, kitten?” he queried, without taking away the cloth from his prisoner’s face.

“Fuck off, bastard,” the killer growled darkly, though it was muffled.

Smiling seraphically, Jim waterboarded him again. “Fine, kitten it is. I like it better too, so everyone is happy,” he remarked gaily.

Once again, the assassin reemerged from choking with a growl in his throat. Molly was starting to get why they called him Tiger. And he was stubborn, still fighting vainly to get free. He’d damage his wrists if he kept that up.

“Stay still, pet, you don’t want me to pin you down with nails,” she said, oh – so – reasonably. Not that she would have, Jim wanted him in mostly good condition, but he didn’t know that, did he now?

“Fuck off, bitch!” the killer snarled, doubling his efforts to get free.

“You. Do. Not. Talk. Like. That. To. Your. New. Mummy!” Jim ordered sharply, underscoring each word with a slap so strong that his victim’s face shook violently from side to side.

At the same time, Molly took the first pointy appliance she had in hand (they didn’t keep nails in the morgue, obviously) and let him feel it on the centre of his right palm. “Do I have to push it in, pet? Your choice,” she bluffed. Finally, their prisoner stilled, afraid. He didn’t want to lose use of his hands.

“Now, apologise!” Moriarty barked angrily.

“Or?” the assassin countered, still defiant.

“What do you say, dear, does he really need a tongue? Or can I have it? Frankly, I’m getting tired of his attitude,” Molly interjected coolly. Inside, she was shocked by how easy this came to her. Threatening, looking on while Jim did the tormenting. She had always thought of herself as a good person. It might be time to revise that, uh? Though their prisoner would undoubtedly kill them if he could. He wasn’t a nice man at all. He deserved this, surely _. Come on, Molly_ , she told herself _. You’re playing the great game. Midway through it is decidedly not the time to start having a moral crisis. Pull yourself together._

“There you have it,” the tech replied, smiling approvingly at her. “How fond are you of your tongue, kitten?”

The assassin swallowed once, then hurriedly said, “I’m sorry, mummy. Please, forgive me.” He couldn’t help his own grimace of distaste when uttering the words, though. After a breath, he added, “Sebastian Moran.”

“Mmmm? Who’s that supposed to be, pet?” Molly queried, mildly curious.

“My name. That’s my name,” he explained, voice rough.

“Oh no pet, you wouldn’t say when I asked, so you haven’t earned the right to a name yet,” Jim pointed out, clicking his tongue in reproach.

Sebastian gritted his teeth angrily, but pressed on, “Why aren’t you killing me yet? I mean, we’re still playing the game aren’t we?” He didn’t appreciate being toyed with. If he’d lost, couldn’t have he received the quick and clean death he’d have given his enemies? It was common bloody courtesy.

“We can kill you anytime we want, pet. Why would we cut the fun short?” Jim replied, ripping away the blindfold on a whim, to allow his victim to see the playful, sadistic smirk that accompanied that sentence.

Moran blinked once and looked around wildly, taking on exactly where he was. That didn’t bode well for him.

“So, love?” Any suggestions?” the IT expert queried, tilting his head.

Molly shrugged. “Oh, you know me, dear. I always start with an y cut…and then try to see how many things I can remove without him dying. How does it feel, having hands rummaging inside you, I wonder?” She took a sharp lancet and trailed it alongside Moran’s naked body, where she would normally cut. He couldn’t contain a full-body shudder, his face ashen. That caused the pathologist to slip and make a small cut on his torso.

“You really have to learn to stay still, pet. I didn’t mean to hurt you…yet,” Molly chided condescendingly. Not that the small bit of blood bothered her. But she’d hoped to leave the torturing to Jim and let threatening be her only contribution. Not that she really thought Jim would let her, but at the very least he wouldn’t welcome her over-the-top suggestions. Her boyfriend wanted to use this man, after all.

“The big bad assassin has things he’s afraid of too, uh?” Jim mocked, laughing. “Try not to wet yourself at least, pet. We’ll have to punish you otherwise.

Moran didn’t reply, just nodding tightly as far as the bonds allowed him. These people were madder than a hundred hatters. And they had caught him. _How_ had they caught him? His blog was supposed to ensure that he’d escape every enemy.

“Anyway, don’t be too worried, pet. I won’t let Mummy do that, if only because it’s her job, and she’s not supposed to be working now. She’s supposed to be having fun. Use your imagination, my dear! Let yourself be inspired by the circumstances,” the tech reassured - if that could be called a reassurance – excitedly prompting his partner in crime.

“Oh, I really don’t know, dear. I don’t have much fantasy. Why don’t you tell me what you are thinking? You always come up with the best plans after all,” the pathologist replied, apparently undecided but in truth not wanting the responsibility to come up with torture techniques.

“Weeell, I was thinking,” the IT expert drawled, “that our kitten to earn his title as Tiger quite lacks the stripes, doesn’t he? I would say that we do get him some by skinning away a few bits.”

Moran didn’t start pleading immediately with them not to, earning his capturer’s respect – though it was possible  that he was too stunned by the prospect.

Molly’s stomach flip flopped. That’d be her duty – she simply couldn’t give Jim a lancet and expect him to make a mess, he’d make a mess. It was a smart choice, in a sense. It would hurt like hell but not endanger their prisoner’s life. She shrugged, saying softly, “Whatever you want,” and determinedly set to work.

This man was an assassin. He’d murdered dozens, hell, for what she knew, maybe hundreds of people. He deserved this. He deserved this. He deserved this. ‘First do no harm’ did not need apply to him. And anyway, if she refused Jim might have turned against her – and she’d rather not be subjected to this brand of his attentions.

She was careful, inflicting the maximum of pain ( _he’s a murderer,_ she repeated to herself all the while) and the minimum of damage.

Moran screamed himself hoarse. The usually quiet morgue resonated with his cries, moans and random swears, damning them to hell and back. After she inflicted a third stripe on him, their victim, tears of pain in his eyes, begged, “End the bloody game, damn it! if you’re going to kill me, kill me! Cut my throat – something! Just not this. Please!”

When Molly hesitated, Jim ordered, “One more stripe, then we’re good.” She had no choice but obey him. The man was too dangerous – probably more dangerous than their victim, and that was saying something. When she tried to make it a thinner stripe than the others, Jim tutted in reproach, and she corrected it immediately.

“I’ll tell you a se*cret, pet,” the tech revealed afterwards, sing-songing and smirking crazily, “we aren’t killing you at all.”

“What?” Moran croaked, uncomprehending.

“It would be a pity to lose your talents. I might have lied in that mail, but I’d really like to hire you. There’s the game, of course, and I have some plans too – a hired brawn with your criminal experience is just what we need at the moment,” Moriarty explained conversationally.

The assassin laughed weakly. “Hiring? And what is this? Your idea of payment? Because let me tell you, that’s shit.”

“Language, pet,” Jim warned, clicking his tongue. “And no, that’s certainly not payment. That is training. I need you to understand, kitten, that you better follow orders unless you want to find yourself back here, to add more stripes. Or – who knows. Maybe I’ll let Mummy cut you open next time. She needs to have her own fun too, doesn’t she?”

“I follow orders!” Sebastian protested, offended. “Former colonel – the army teaches you how to. You didn’t have to do any of this!”

“So my kitten made it to colonel? Because you were that good at killing? Good for you, pet. But there is a lesson I needed to drive home today in that beautiful head of yours. You attacking us gets us a dead end warning, and we will react accordingly. But we? We’ve cracked the system. You ain’t the type to ignore your blog, but we captured you easily – because you got no warning at all. We can play with you all we want and you will not be able to stop us. So if I were you I’d really cooperate with whatever we come up with,” the tech declared matter-of-factly, walking up and down by Moran’s side, unable to stay still.

“Cooperating? Hiring? Sure, I can do that. No problem. Once we’re in a contract I’ll be loyal to you… for as long as it lasts. But what’s in it for me? will you teach me to crack the system?” Moran replied, wishing he could shrug.

“Nice try, pet. As if we were so dim-witted. No, no. for you there’s surviving, and not being subjected to an autopsy _before_ dying, and since I’m feeling quite generous a fair bit of money, too. I have some savings, and they’re definitely worthy investing in this venture. And of course, you’d be earning your name back. What do you say, Bast?” Jim proposed, with a wide grin.

“That Bast equals to kitten, so if you don’t want to call me Colonel or Moran you can go with Seb,” the assassin remarked sharply.

Moriarty laughed heartily at the quip, while Molly smiled to herself and then couldn’t help but let out a little giggle. “Greedy,” Jim chided amiably. “But I didn’t think you’d be into Egyptian myths. You surprise me – and there’s little I love more. So what do you say, Sebby? Do we have a deal?”

“We certainly have, boss,” Sebastian agreed, with a smile that ended up becoming more a grimace of pain.

“Patch him up a little, dear, and then untie him. We’ll be in contact, Sebbykins,” the IT expert ordered, taking out his phone and leaving, his victim turned ally already not having his attention anymore (which to be honest miffed Moran a bit, but he knew better than to complain).

“Of course, Jim,” Molly agreed softly. Now this was an order she had no problems complying with. They had entered a contract – and Jim had succeeded in scaring the assassin out. There was little chance that Sebastian would decide to attack her as soon as she untied him.                            


	24. Sebastian's job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: as usual, I own nothing. Thank you so much to dear am1thirteen for betaing this for me despite her busy RL. I know, I missed last month’s appointment. I’ll try to squeeze two chapters this month but I don’t promise anything.

The next morning, Jim sent Sebastian a text. _Got a job for you, Bast. Meet me at lunch. Daddy._ The name of a cosy café followed. He was half curious to see if the man would try to free himself and kill him or if he’d obey like a good little pet.

Moran was punctual, and sat down with a grin. Jim liked that. The man must be in pain, angry and – hopefully – scared, but still he behaved as if he had no worries at all. “I like working. So, who’s the target?” the criminal asked.

“Oh, you know him already. Doctor John Watson,” Jim revealed, with a Cheshire cat smile.

“Of course. I’ve always meant to end him. But since that stint at the hospital I’ve had Detective Inspector Lestrade breathing down my neck more than usual – almost as if he’d suddenly got better at his job. Killing him took second place to laying low and making sure I wouldn’t get caught,” the assassin replied, waving his hands to underscore his words. So maybe he was a bit nervous.

Moriarty clicked his tongue in displeasure. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, _no_ , kitten. I absolutely don’t want you to kill _the good doctor_ ,” he scolded, emphasising his point by waving a manicured finger in front of his face. “And don’t gape, kitten. Close that mouth, it’s very unsightly,” he added sharply.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Moran asked finally. He wanted to add, “And _why the hell_ aren’t we killing him?” but he thought better than question the man about his projects. He had a feeling his new boss wouldn’t like or forgive the insubordination.

“Why, kidnap him, of course! I would never kill my beloved…friend,” Jim said, as if it was obvious. The pause between the last two words was quite telltale, though.

“You want me to kidnap your friend. And bring him to the morgue?” Moran assumed, repressing a little shiver. He still thought it would be kinder just killing the bloke. But clearly the other man didn’t want to hear it.

“Do not assume, Bast. You know what they say about people who do. We don’t want to involve Mummy in this. She’s too softhearted,” Moriarty bit back sharply.

“Sorry Sir,” Sebastian replied automatically. He had his objections about the kindheartedness of that lancet-wielding witch, but once again, he wisely kept them to himself.

“Once you have him I’ll text you the address you have to bring him to,” the tech stated simply.

“Look, I’m not refusing the job. I’ll do it – of course I’ll do it. But why me? you’re perfectly adequate at kidnapping people on your own, and if he’s your friend he won’t even be on his guard around you,” Seb couldn’t help but ask.

“Because I don’t want the doctor not to know what hit him. I want him to be afraid. I want him to regret the allegiance he’s chosen, when they won’t be able to help him. And to deal with a former soldier, another one seemed my best bet,” Jim declared, a wild glint in his eyes. “Also, remember, he has a gun.”

“Duly noted,” Moran replied curtly. That didn’t worry him much. He had guns, too, and rifles, and yes, he shouldn’t kill the man, but his boss hadn’t stated that he couldn’t hurt him, either. He might work off a few of his frustrations at least.

He went to the hospital, asking after doctor Watson, only to be informed he wasn’t working today. Not that he’d meant to attack him in his office – Seb just wanted to find the man. Oh, well. He sent a text to his boss. _Please, get me my target’s mobile phone number._

 _Why? Do you want to warn him? ;-)_ was the cheeky reply.

 _I want to find him. He’s not at work. Thank God for technology, though,_ the assassin countered, just holding back a ‘rolling eyes’ emoticon.

 _Do you want me to locate him for you?_ came next. Sebastian could hear the sneer in the written words.

 _I can do my job on my own – well, with people who owe me favours – if only you get me the damn number,_ he assured, his patience already wearing thin. In hindsight, that might not be the best idea.

 _Language, pet. And if I don’t?_ his boss warned immediately. Why must the damn man make it all so difficult?

 _I’ll get him, but I’ll be slower,_ Seb admitted, wondering if a shrug emoticon existed. _I don’t think you like slow. The number, please, Sir,_ he added, trying to appeal to the infuriating man’s rationality if he had any.

 _Please WHAT?_ Jim texted back.

The assassin racked his brain. What did the man want? He’d been respectful, hadn’t he? He could call Seb kitten all he wanted, but if he expected Moran to call him Master he better think again. He would rather die before he stooped so low.

Or was it something else the madman wanted? He said that ‘Mummy’ was too softhearted, and had signed his text in that ridiculous way, so maybe…Not wanting to displease his new boss (God knew what he could do), even if he felt like an idiot, Seb texted, _Please, Daddy._

The reply was immediate. _Good boy, Bast. Here’s the number._ Sebastian rolled his eyes. At least he’d gotten the man’s kink right. That would have been beyond embarrassing if his boss hadn’t reacted the way he had done.

A quick message to one of his contacts, and he was tracking his target’s phone position through gps. The man was near Baker Street, actually, and moving. Slowly, though. Sebastian’s bet was that he was strolling. The afternoon was pleasant, after all. He took his chances and called a cab. He might not be able to kidnap the doctor in such a public place but he could probably come up with something upon arriving. An occasion might offer itself.

Soon, he saw his target indeed walking on the pavement a little ahead of him. John Watson was even whistling a cheerful tune. What had caused such a good mood? Got laid, doctor? Oh, no matter. He only had to follow the man. At least Seb would learn where he lived.

He thought he was being sneaky, but his target soon turned behind, looking around. Sebastian watched intently a shop window, looking like any other passerby but seeing Watson reflected in it. After a second, the doctor gave up looking his surroundings and shook his head. Seb smiled to himself, resuming his tailing.

So the old soldier still had good instincts, uh? Sebastian liked that. at his core, he’d always been a hunter – the bigger and more feisty the game the better. Of course, no prey was more exciting than humans. Both his legitimate career in the army and the successive as a hitman had let him enjoy his favourite sport. He couldn’t kill this one – he remembered it, obviously – but it didn’t mean that now he wasn’t on the prowl, his blood thrumming in his veins.

People in his line of work tended to becareful planners – obsessive compulsive, more like, he knew a couple of them – but Sebastian liked going with the flow. Hell, he liked giving his prey a fighting chance. The fact that he always was successful with his jobs was a testimony of how good a hunter he was.

He continued tailing his target, who seemed to be wandering around aimlessly rather than a man with a destination in mind. Until Watson led him to a dead end alley, and suddenly turned around to face him. So he’d been noticed after all.

“Look, if you’re a mugger, scurry away. I’m not worth the trouble. I don’t have much money, and I also have a gun and I know how to use it. Most probably better than you are,” the doctor stated sternly, looking up and down his adversary.

“I seriously doubt that,” Seb snarled, “since I outrank you, Captain.” His contact had sent him a link to John’s army files as well as his gps position as a gift to a frequent client. “Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he added, with a feral grin that showed way too much teeth.

“Is this about Afghanistan then? Whom are you avenging for? Who couldn’t I save?” the doctor queried, a tired, haunted look in his eyes.

“What? No, nothing nearly as personal,” the hitman explained, laughing. He didn’t want a weakened prey. That would be no fun at all. “It’s all a game – though someone is messing with the rules,” he added, taking a step towards his soon-to-be victim. Seb still thought they should just kill the doctor outright, but he wasn’t about to displease his boss, thank you very much. He didn’t want to get back on that fucking slab.

“I’m glad,” John replied, and he really looked so *utterly* relieved. “You should know something, Colonel,” he said with an almost apologetic look – and he drew the gun against which Sebastian had been warned, aiming it at him. But he didn’t shoot outright. _Why_ did he not? Did he really think Seb would just back off and leave him alone? Was he another fucking madman?

The assassin grinned at him – as he threw a loose brick from the wall at his side with perfect aim at John’s wrist, causing the gun to be knocked off his hand.

Watson swore loudly, and at the same time ducked and lunged, trying to get his weapon back. Sebastian lunged, too, and they scuffled around in the alley, trading blows and both recurring to their training in an attempt to subdue the other. Being hurt, Moran almost lost a couple of times, after a luckily aimed blow hit his wounds, making him grunt heavily in pain. But he was bigger and heavier and he still had his weapon to clobber his target on the head with (killing him would have been oh-so-simpler). When after a well-placed blow the doctor finally passed out, Seb huffed, pocketed his victim’s weapon – no sense letting a perfectly serviceable gun go to waste – and texted Jim that he had his man. Where did his boss want him now?

As soon as he received an answer, he hoisted John on the main road and stopped a cab. “My friend has been mugged, I want to bring him home, please,” he stated.

“Sure you don’t prefer bringing him to the hospital?” the cabbie queried, eyeing them dubiously.

“His flatmate is a doctor,” Seb lied easily, and the cabbie shrugged, taking them and even helping him carrying his victim inside.

When they arrived, Jim was already at the door, an impatient look on his face that hopefully the cabbie would mistake for worried. He offered to help Seb carry him down to what the assassin supposed was to be his holding cell, “so you won’t casually bash his head on the walls.”

“You’re huffing,” Jim remarked, with a teasing grin. “You seemed stronger than this.”

“Yeah, well, the fight might have jostled something – I’m not exactly in top shape now,” Moran admitted.

“Get undressed,” Moriarty ordered sharply.

“Come again?” Seb couldn’t help but blurt out, startled.

“Did I stutter, Moran?” the tech bit back sternly.

“No, Sir,” he replied meekly, starting to obey.

“Blood is seeping through your bandages.” Jim pointed out, voice and eyes dark like the pits of hell, licking his lips. “Well? Keep going!” he prompted, when Seb stopped disrobing.

Shrugging, Sebastian shimmied out of his trousers. What he really didn’t expect was Moriarty going smoothly to his knees, licking his lips again. “You’ve been a good boy, Sebby. And good boys get rewards.”

Sebastian suspected a serious blood kink more than that, but hey, he wasn’t about to turn down a free blowjob. He was immediately very interested in the proceedings. It helped that his boss was decidedly easy on the eyes.

A shamefully quick orgasm later (but hell, Jim was wicked with that tongue) and a very surprising refusal of his offer to reciprocate later, Moran was ordered to redress and be on his way to Mummy to have his wounds seen to.

He tried to object that he could take care of himself, but Moriarty hissed, “We have a medical professional. And you’ll not disobey me, Colonel.”

Sebastian instinctively saluted and started to redress. The tiny pathologist terrified him, but he’d have to see her. Hopefully she’d knew he’d been a good boy, too, and not make things worse.

  
  
  
  



	25. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All hail to am1thirteen for helping me get this out when in December all other ongoing fics of mine are on hiatus because of Hades Lord of the Dead’s challenge. This fic wouldn’t have been born without her.

John woke up slowly, his head throbbing painfully. Ow. Had he been run over by a truck? Memory came back then. The mugger. No, not mugger. The veteran. Colonel something or other. He had said it had been about the game, hadn’t he? Then why was he alive still? Had the man just destroyed his phone – and maybe that hadn’t meant instantaneous death as he’d assumed?

The more poignant question, though, was – where was he now? It was pitch dark, and cold, and certainly not the alley they’d fought at. Why move him? He tried to move, searching around for an exit – only to be brought up short after a few steps. He was chained to the wall. He’d been so cold all over that he hadn’t even felt the metal around his wrists.

The doctor tried shouting, “Oi! Someone! Anyone! Get over here, now!” Yes, probably the more sensible thing to scream would have been, ‘help!’ But truth be told, he wasn’t very scared. He was angry – at himself for being so easily overpowered, at whoever had had him trapped. He wanted answers – who and why and what they bloody wanted out of him. It was the least they could do after kidnapping him, right?

They didn’t think so, apparently. John was left alone in the dark and cold to shout himself hoarse if he wanted to. After a while, he shut up. Better to conserve his energy. Someone had to come to see him sooner or later after all. You didn’t kidnap people to forget about them afterwards.

It certainly seemed that they – whoever ‘they’ were – wanted to ignore him, though. John had no idea how much time had passed, but it sure felt like hours – a day? His head was getting fuzzy. Then, finally, the door opened and a man came in, visible in the feeble light coming from the open door. “Jim! Thank God! How did you find me?” John blurted out, recognizing his friend.

Jim smirked cruelly. “It would be hard to lose you when you are in my own cellar, Johnny, don’t you think?” he pointed out, encompassing the place with a theatrical gesture.

“In your cellar?” the prisoner echoed, his voice no more than an uncomprehending croak.

“Well, of course, you were _betraying_ me,” the IT expert singsonged. “I had to do _something_.”

“Betraying…I’m not, Jim! I would never,” John protested vibrantly. It was all a misunderstanding. He needed to make Jim see sense.

“But you are. Trailing after that play detective like an enamoured pup. Did you forget your promise?” his capturer snarled angrily.

“I’ll always help you with the game. Also, about that, Sherlock…” the doctor tried to explain.

Jim backhanded him. Fiercely, making John’s head spin with the blow. “I wasn’t talking about our _stupid_ survival pact. Do you really believe that we first met when you came back from Afghanistan?”

“Yes?” John replied hesitantly. What was the man talking about? Promises, meetings…he had no idea what Jim wanted. And with this new – no, not entirely new, just never directed against him before – side of him coming into play, he was almost starting to get scared.

“Oh. You _wound_ me, John. We met a long time ago, and you promised then. You _promised_ ,” Jim insisted, a mad glint in his eyes obvious even in the weak light.

“Look, I’m sorry I forgot, Jim, but…could you maybe unchain me? Couldn’t we have this discussion over tea? Tea makes everything better,” the doctor prompted, in his best placating tone that worked wonders with upset patients.

It did nothing for the madman in front of him, sadly. “You misbehaved, John. People who misbehave need to be punished. Any child could tell you that. I’m afraid we’re doing things my way,” he replied, looking for a moment almost honestly regretful, before perking up like the child he’d mentioned at the prospect of entertainment. “Let’s play a game, shall we? I’ll give you clues. And see how long it takes you to remember our first meeting.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” his captive sighed. At least, it looked like a pretty much harmless game. And if it put Jim in a better mood, maybe he would listen to reason afterwards.

“Be glad I’m in a playful mood. I could make things much more unpleasant for you,” Jim warned sternly. “But never mind that. here is your first clue: pool.”

“Pool?” John echoed, sounding taken aback. “I’ve not been to one since primary school. We weren’t classmates, were we? I think I’d have remembered a proper genius like you.”

“No, we weren’t. And you aren’t playing this game with your brain’s full power – I know you can do better than wild guesses like this. I didn’t say desk or blackboard or anything like that, did I?” the man chided, clucking his tongue. “I suppose you need an incentive. I took this from Molly – not that she noticed it,” he added, brandishing a lancet. He made quick work of John’s clothes and then traced a thin, shallow horizontal line on his captive’s diaphragm with the blade. “I really like you, John,” Jim murmured, with a crazy smile, “which is why I’m giving you four additional guesses over the usual hangman game, having to build the gallows too. But you don’t want to know what happens if you can’t remember me once you’ve been hanged.”

“Jim…come on. This is insane,” John pleaded softly. It wasn’t even for the hurt – Jim could have done much, much worse with his weapon. Still…didn’t they like each other? As friends? Why this?

His captor laughed, loudly and long. “Are you getting this only now? Come on, Johnny, care to make another guess?” he added when he got his breath back under control.

“Don’t I get another clue?” the doctor bit back. He needed to gain time at least until he could figure out how to placate his friend turned captor.

“You weren’t playing seriously before, so no. I make the rules, remember,” Jim replied, wagging a finger at him.

“Fine, pool…pool…were you at the swimming inter-school championship?” the blond hazarded.

His kidnapper beamed at him. “Bingo! Do you remember me now, Johnny?” he queried, looking eager in a childlike manner.

“Sorry, afraid not. I participated three years on a row, and you can imagine how many kids I met,” John confessed. It was weird that Jim remembered him from so long ago, if you asked John.

“Pity,” Jim replied, frowning, and he added a long vertical line on his prisoner’s chest. Another shallow cut, luckily, but painful all the same. John grimaced. “I suppose you deserve another clue, though. Walkman,” Jim added, looking expectantly at him.

John’s face scrunched up in thought, but ultimately he gave up. “Do you know how many kids had one? I’m sorry, I’m trying to place you, but I really can’t.”

“Did I make such a fleeting impression?” Jim hissed angrily. “I’m disappointed, John, truly. And you better not go down this path,” he warned sternly, adding another horizontal cut on top of the vertical one – this one a bit more deep than the others, but still not dangerous.

John gritted his teeth. “Why don’t you tell me something significant? The year, at least?” he asked – almost demanded, which was oddly daring for someone in his position.

Jim ignored him. “Rossini,” he said instead. He was tempted to say ‘magpie’ but he didn’t think John would have recognized the opera – not then, and probably not even now.

“Ok, ok, that helps – Rossini isn’t just any kid’s idea of entertainment. Was one of the teachers involved? But we didn’t do synchronized swimming so why Rossini…oh wait…1989?” the doctor reasoned out loud, a spark of understanding finally in his eyes.

Jim beamed at him. “Yes, Johnny. See, now we’re getting somewhere.” Then he shut up, and looked at his prisoner with eager expectation.

John started to remember. “There was a kid who got bullied because he listened to classical music – which was apparently, according to the idiots there, ‘not for boys’. They called him names, and threw his Walkman in the pool, and – well, I saw that and I got angry and intervened. I might have thrown a few punches too. Was it you they were bullying?” he queried, frowning in an effort to remember the scrawny kid he’d instinctively saved.

His captor didn’t answer. He kissed John instead. On the mouth. Not expecting that, John spluttered when – luckily soon – it ended. “I’ve not been able to hear ‘the thieving magpie’ overture since then without thinking of you anymore,” Jim confessed, eyes dreamy. “Now, do you remember what you promised me then?”

John shook his head, and his kidnapper’s eyes darkened with anger. “I remember asking if you were okay, if you wanted me to call a teacher, but I don’t remember making promises,” the doctor confessed honestly.

“Oh Johnny. That’s bad. Don’t you tell me you didn’t mean it,” Jim sighed, disappointed. He added a bloody circle on John’s chest, under the gallows.

“I’ve never said things I didn’t mean,” his captive assured, gritting his teeth.

“So you say, so you say,” Jim replied, waving his justification away.

“Well, what can I have promised? I must have promised to help you against the bullies,” John reasoned. He’d certainly not ever promised he’d become his boyfriend or anything like that.

“Close enough,” Jim conceded, throwing the lancet behind himself and smiling. “But oh, John, it was so much more than that. you said, and I’m quoting, ‘Anytime someone tries to hurt you just call me and I’ll be there. Anytime, do you hear me? I promise I’ll be at your side the moment you need me. Just call.’ You looked so eager when you said that. So intense. My own knight in shining armour. How could I do not fall utterly in love with you?”

It had been an honest offer. Bullies always made John’s blood boil, probably because Harry got her fair share of them.

Of course, Jim didn’t mention that, rather than continuing to play damsel in distress, he’d then killed off the worst of the bullies on his own. He’d wanted John’s admiration, then, but the investigation had mucked things up and stopped him from seeing John again, and he knew him well enough now to realise that his feat would gain him no praise from his prisoner. Besides, there were his complaints to voice. “And now that I’m constantly in mortal peril –and you know it – you spend all your time with Holmes. Promise breakers deserve punishment, John!” he stated, glowering with angry jealousy.

“But I’m doing this for us, too! You won’t believe what Sherlock managed to do. I swear, that man is an amazing genius!” John replied enthusiastically. Fine, that might have been a little white lie. He didn’t spend time with the detective ‘for Jim’ – he really honestly liked the bloke. But Jim could profit from it!

“I. Don’t. Care!” Jim bit back sharply, punctuating each word with a hard slap to the face. “You’re not to see him anymore, Johnny-boy, do you hear me? Not to text him anymore. Do not anything him anymore. You’re _mine_. And if you can’t understand such a simple concept, I’ll have to train it into you properly!”

“But Jim –!” the doctor protested loudly. This was insensate – not to mention unacceptable. He wasn’t a bloody toy to be owned!

Jim lunged to get back the lancet he’d carelessly thrown and held it against his captive’s throat. “No buts Johnny. I don’t want to hear any of that,” he hissed mendaciously. When he made a step back, the doctor was wisely silent. “And now, I’m leaving you alone to think how deeply you disappointed me and what you could do to apologise. I want it to come from you, not because I ordered you to. Bye bye, Johnny-boy,” the kidnapper added, mocking.

And with that Jim departed, slamming the door close and leaving John once more trapped in the dark. Fuck. He’d liked Jim, honestly liked him – as a friend. The man might have an edge (oh, fine, maybe more than an edge) of insanity, but he was brilliant in his own right. Of course, Jim had teased him about wanting him, but that’s all John had thought it was. A tease. Or…maybe not, maybe he knew deep down that it was a proper courtship, but one John could control simply by saying no. He should have understood Jim would not accept not for an answer, simply by how persistent he’d been despite John’s not-gay declarations. But he would have sworn Jim would never hurt him. It appeared he couldn’t be more wrong. The doctor couldn’t even start to imagine how the other man could have obsessed continuously over him since they were eleven years old.

Now the question was: how to deal with him? He could give up and try to think up some way to ‘apologise’ that would appease his captor. But that would mean he’d had to give up Sherlock – and, even more, ultimately becoming Jim’s boyfriend. The man would never be content with anything less. And this John couldn’t do, could he? His situation wasn’t even a fuck-or-die. It was a fuck or be chained. Well, he’d keep the chains, thank you very much.

John didn’t have a clear idea of how many hours had past once Jim came back. “So? Ready to apologise properly, Johnny?” his captor quipped cheekily.

“Not quite, Jim,” the doctor replied, smiling his furious smile.

“No?” Jim echoed, raising a surprised eyebrow. He’d really expected his prisoner to be in a much more compliant mood. “I thought you wanted to get out of this cell.”

“A friend wouldn’t have put me in one, to begin with. I thought you were one, Jim – a friend, that is. And that’s what my promise was about so many years ago. Being good friends. Friends protect each other. And I wanted that with you. I want that. But you don’t _own_ friends. Did no one teach you that?” John remarked, a sudden wave of tiredness washing away the rage.

“Then you deluded me. It’s not a kind thing to do, you know,” his kidnapper hissed, jabbing sharply a finger against his cuts.

“You deluded yourself, Jim. And you want _me_ to apologise? Know what? Fuck you, Jim!” the doctor replied sharply. He was tired of the man’s shit.

His captor punched him. Hard. On the solar plexus. John’s breath escaped from him in a pained grunt. “You’re not being polite, Johnny. Didn’t mum teach you better? I’d think carefully over your behaviour, though. if you annoy me too much I’ll have to throw you away. I’m sure Bast would love to have you as a plaything,” Jim threatened smirking.

“”Bast?” John echoed, uncomprehending.

“Sebastian. The pet who brought you here. He thinks that we should kill you outright, but I’m sure he wouldn’t turn his nose up at toying with you for a while first,” the other man explained, shrugging.

“Jim,” the doctor – not pleaded, he wasn’t pleading, but…he was scared. A bit. Maybe. He couldn’t defend himself in his present condition after all.

“Rethinking it already?” Jim queried, looking insufferably smug.

“I’m…not exactly. I don’t like being yours full stop. But can’t I go back at being your best friend? And have other friends too? Like every normal bloke?” John queried, a touch of desperation in his voice.

“No half measures anymore, Johnny,” his kidnapper growled, then suddenly softened his voice. “Look, I want to still hope that you’ll take the right decision on your own. I’ll give you until tomorrow. But by then you shall have to decide whose you want to be. Mine or Bast’s. Sweet dreams, Johnny.”   


	26. Rescued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still do not own a thing. A. N. I know, I know, a few days late, I’m so sorry – I’ll try to manage two chapters in this month but I do not pledge on it.

 

 

Sherlock smiled to himself while ringing the bell. Maybe it was too soon to see John again, especially because he hasn’t really come up with a sound excuse for it – no prospect of case, no need of the doctor’s expertise for a new experiment…simply the wish to meet him (and maybe have a cup of his friend’s perfect tea). The sleuth should be embarrassed to admit that, but hopefully he could get away without specifying his motives.

Oddly, he rang and rang – but nobody responded. Why would John ignore him? That had never happened before. Of course, his friend might merely be absent. But if that was the case, why wouldn’t he warn the detective not to waste the trip? The doctor was considerate by nature – he would have. After all, his friend had always been notified in advance of his visits, no matter how extemporary, thanks to the blog.

True, John skimmed through it way more often than it was wise to, but Sherlock’s name was peculiar enough to stand out even at a passing glance – and the capital initial helped. All it took was a text “Won’t be at home. Busy. JW”, with some ridiculous emoticon no doubt if the reason his friend hadn’t been home was a romantic conquest. So why hadn’t he?

…John was safe, wasn’t he? He _had_ to be. Still, the doubt and – unneeded, certainly unneeded – fear flared up in the detective’s gut. He’d just…check on the doctor. Yeah, that. So he went to the hospital. Maybe John was just at work.

There was a blonde, frustrated-looking nurse answering his queries and dealing with a long number of waiting patients. “No, doctor Watson has _not yet_ arrived,” she grumbled.

Now, that wasn’t like John at all. The man was responsible above all else. The sleuth decided to go in search of Jim. His blog would be the easiest way to reassure himself about their common friend’s condition. Sadly, he discovered that the IT tech wasn’t there, either.

This practically warranted blog trouble. Why hadn’t John called the consulting detective, knowing of his abilities? This did not bode well. It did not bode well at all. Thank God for his hacking prowess – getting into the city’s CCTV records was child’s play. From that to seeing an unknown man getting a battered John into a cab – and following its tracks to what was, with a couple of clicks, identified as the house of one Jim Moriarty – it took only ten minutes. And it was easy to determine John had never left Moriarty’s house.

Sherlock would have sworn that Jim was on John’s side, if someone had asked him ten minutes earlier, but if the man’s allegiance had switched – why, John could have been already dead. “Oh God, please no,” the sleuth whispered, terrified.

Instinct said to run there immediately and storm in, but he was alone and Moriarty had at least one accomplice. He needed help. Of course, for a normal person that’d mean calling Lestrade (and he would, obviously he would), but being openly attacked by the police might push them to kill John – and make any evidence disappear that way – if they hadn’t already. Instead, if they believed this to be a simple courtesy visit, Jim might lower his guard. And the presence of not-game related civilians, whose bodies wouldn’t conveniently vanish, would hopefully curb his more murderous tendencies.

True, that’d mean risking innocent people’s lives, but if he could save John, Sherlock didn’t much care about anything else. He’d never felt anything for anyone else before, and he wasn’t going to let compassion ruin his plans now.

First, the sleuth tracked down Stamford. “Mike, I need help,” he said without preambles.

“With what?” the man replied, with an indulgent smile.

“John. And Moriarty. I think Jim might be holding him against his will,” the detective admitted honestly.

“Oh come on, they’re best friends!” Stamford laughed, rolling his eyes.

“Then bet me. One hundred pounds. You’ll have to come with me to Moriarty’s, though. you can’t trust me not to cheat,” the sleuth challenged earnestly. This would be the best invested money of his life.

“Gosh, you’re really serious, are you?” Mike queried, looking worried – but for Sherlock’s sanity.

“And you’re so sure they’re besties, so…do you want these hundred pounds or not?” the detective bit back sternly. They needed to go now!

“Jim would never hurt John. Fine, I’ll come. But this feels like I’m robbing you,” Stamford sighed.

“We’re going to need a witness,” the detective decided – the more civilians involved, the less probable any ‘initiative’ from Jim was. “Let’s do things proper.” He went back to John’s office, Mike in tow.

“Doctor Watson has not yet arrived,” the same blonde nurse informed them, with a glare.

“I know where he is…Mary,” Sherlock replied, impervious to her nerves, reading her name tag.

“Well, tell him to hurry up, would you?” she asked – though it sounded more like an order.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to tell him yourself? Come with us to get him,” the detective proposed, with an inviting – if slightly eerie – smile.

“Do you think I can just up and leave?” the nurse hissed, gesturing to the number of increasingly frustrated and angry patients in the waiting room.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone to hold the fort, if you explain that you’re going to get the doctor and that you’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” the sleuth replied, grinning at her.

“Know what? I’m coming. I need to give him a piece of my mind. Just let me call Jordan to replace me,” Mary agreed.

Two minutes later, they were all on the way to Moriarty’s house and – hopefully – not too late. It was in the car that the consulting detective called himself stupid – mentally only, but very loudly. He had involved these people – but he’d assumed they were not taking part in the game themselves. He might be wrong. He might be exposing John to more danger. Certainly the contestants were different enough that deducing their implication in the game wasn’t going to be easy. What did a serial killer, a professional dominatrix, a former army doctor, a stalkerish IT tech, a genetic modification researcher have in common? And these were only the ones he was aware of… “You don’t happen to have a blog, do you?” Sherlock inquired airily.

Mary laughed warmly, forgetting her previous irritation. “Everyone has a blog in this day and age,” she remarked, showing him a blog called arrogantly “I’m the best thing that could happen to you”. it was full of entries like, “Today I had to take blood from a terrified five years old boy. He said it didn’t hurt at all. I’m the best thing that could happen to him,” or “Janine asked me to call her with a fake emergency to get her out of the blind date her parents arranged for her, and I did. I’m the best thing that could happen to her.”

Thank God, it had very few readers…who would want to read trash like that anyway? And it decidedly showed no predictions of the future. Why, it wasn’t even on its own site like the other future blogs Sherlock had seen but on a platform, a bit like lj…One he’d never heard of, but if the contents were all like these, he hadn’t missed anything worthwhile.

“I got a blog there too! Though mine has fewer readers,” Mike remarked good-naturedly, seeing it from his position in the backseat. Mercifully, he didn’t show it, and Sherlock was certainly not going to enquire further. Neither of them played, which was all he needed to know to ensure they’d be useful to him.

In the meantime, in John’s cell, Jim had come for his long-awaited answer. “So baby?” the stalker queried, with a feral smile.

“Yours. I want to be yours,” his prisoner gritted out, caving in. He couldn’t let himself be used by that stranger, Seb-whatever. Jim liked him, at least, and if he thought that John wanted him back he would free him – hopefully –and then he could do something.

“I knew you’d see reason!” his captor exclaimed, beaming at him and kissing the tip of his nose affectionately.

“Jim,” the doctor croaked, “could you please take away the chains?”

“But Johnny-boy. I have to keep you safe. And you have zero self-preservation instincts! Remember Jeanette?” the madman replied, clucking his tongue in disapproval.

At that moment, someone knocked. “Boss?” Seb called.

“This better be good, kitten,” Jim chided, allowing him in.

“The cavalry’s here. I wondered how you wanted them dealt with,” the sniper said, shrugging. He handed to Jim his phone, which – while he was unconscious – had been hooked into the security system the tech had (obviously) placed around his home. The screen showed the now parked car with the detective (whom Sebastian had been told to look out for) and his companions. It was a show of deep trust, giving his phone like that, and the sniper had shivered a bit handing it over. But anyway, his boss had already had many occasions to kill him – and he hadn’t yet. Why would he do so now that he could need help?

Jim pressed a couple keys and activated a lip-reading program. John craned his neck to be able to watch, too.

“I’m going to see. Either I’m right, and John and I will come back in a mo, or you are right, in which case I am really not saviour material,” a mechanical voice declared, reading Mike Stamford’s lips.

“What?” Mary queried, the robotic voice without doubt failing to convey her shrill yelp.

Sherlock waved away her worries. “It’ll all be fine,” he assured.

John was tempted to roll his eyes at his friend’s nonchalance. Or yell at him. What was he thinking, bringing Mike and Mary over to investigate? Because from what Mike said, this was no social call – the consulting detective had figured everything out.

“So, boss?” Seb queried, fingering his gun without even realising it.

“So, kitten, let it never be said that we’re not gentlemen. Go open the door and bring dear old Mike here. He wants to see John, doesn’t he?” Jim replied, smirking.

The sniper nodded and went to obey, but they heard him grumble about ‘not being a bloody butler.’

“Please, Jim,” John pleaded, “Mike shouldn’t be involved”.

“Tell that to Holmes,” his captor snapped. “I’m not the one who invited him.”

“Oh, I will,” the doctor assured earnestly, “if you only let me see him – call him – text him – whatever.”

“Nice try, Johnny. But I’m not such an idiot as to trust you yet around him. We’ll handle things my way now, love,” the madman replied sternly.

Mike raised an eyebrow to the grumpy looking tank-like man that welcomed him in Jim’s house, but made himself smile and follow him. Maybe they were all having a…party, and this man just didn’t want to get away from it to open the door for him? In the morning, it sounded a bit odd, but well, Jim was never one to follow the masses.

The man led him downstairs and still Mike didn’t see anything wrong with that. Many people adapted their cellars for entirely innocent entertainment purposes. When the stranger quite rudely pushed Mike inside a room, and he saw John in chains…well, any pretence that everything was fine went down the drain. “What the fuck –” Stamford protested, taking a few quick steps toward John, but he never ended that sentence. A nod from Jim had Sebastian knocking him out. The sniper honestly thought it would be easier to just kill him, but he wasn’t the one making the calls.

“Our next guests you won’t lead here – but to the next room. I’ve taken great pains to adapt it,” Jim announced, texting to Sherlock, “Why don’t you all come and play instead of knocking one after another, waiting to see what happens? Isn’t being so careful boring?  JM”.

“Please, Jim, don’t – whatever it is,” John begged, scared.

“You don’t get a vote I’m afraid, Johnny-boy,” his captor declared, shaking his head.

The sleuth accepted the invite – of course he did. There had never been another possibility. He dragged Mary with him, hoping to throw a spanner in Jim’s plans. He shouldn’t have underestimated the man’s insanity. It seemed unnecessary to attack Jim’s accomplice – he still hoped that they would be led to John, it would befit  the stalker’s arrogance. Instead, they were brought – and locked in, before he could protest – to an empty room, beside for a camera glinting in a corner. Strangely, the walls didn’t touch the ceiling – there was a tiny sliver of space, enough for a person to slip through – but it was too high for them to reach, even climbing on one another. And there was no lock to pick. Not on their side of the door. As if that weren’t enough, a steady stream of wet cement started to spew out of a pipe.

“I’m composing my last words,” Mary announced, like a tragic heroine.

“We still have a chance,” Sherlock stated. He put himself in front of the camera, and said calmly, “I still have my mobile phone, Moriarty. Maybe I don’t play, but I can text. I can text detective inspector Lestrade and let him know some things. I investigated you, of course. Once it was clear that you were potentially dangerous and could betray John, I had to find ammunition to make you behave. So…well, I might not have had any authorisation for that, but I dug up your parents. They were clearly murdered – I don’t even know how you ever obtained a natural death certificate. And what surprised me – there was an extra body with them. A young child’s body. Just out of curiosity, I took some samples and ran a few tests…I told Molly it was for a case, which was true…and the child was their son. Now, since there’s never been any record of a brother or sister of yours – I checked – what happened, uh? Who are you, Moriarty? Or why would your parents not register another son? Do you really want Lestrade investigating all this? We can let the dead lie… _if_ you let us and John go.”

The cement only seemed to flow quicker. The sleuth was ready to text Lestrade – at least John should be rescued, even if he’d failed miserably at that – when Mary repeated, “I’m going to post my last words.”

The detective peaked – almost accidentally – and he barely contained a groan. How could one pass out with a lie at her fingertips? The last post read, “Mum, Daddy, everyone. I’m so sorry. I died because I cared so much. I would have been the best thing that could happen to him.” She didn’t die because she cared – she died because she’d wanted to yell at John firsthand, without waiting even a minute.

But then her mobile phone pinged. “You’ve gained ten new readers,” it said. Wow, people were morbid, weren’t they? And then…another message. “Your rank rose. You’re now a future blog holder apprentice.”

“What’s that?” she queried. It didn’t make any sense to her. And neither to Sherlock, honestly – he didn’t know that the contestants could have ranks. Or be added mid-game. He was tempted to erase her immediately. But another message informed her of her new ‘powers’. Which, apparently, included jumping high enough – if Sherlock helped her – to escape.

Well, he’d come here for a reason. “Please, save Doctor Watson,” he beseeched. Nothing else mattered. Certainly not his own fate.

“Oh, I will,” she assured him with a blinding smile, before jumping first on his shoulders and then away.

“I saved myself. I’m the best thing that could happen – to me,” pinged her phone. Followed immediately by another text.

“Oh, what now? We can’t even have breakfast in peace,” Jim groaned. He’d been trying to give coffee to John mouth to mouth, mostly ignoring whatever came from the screen he’d made appear on the wall facing his prisoner, to follow whatever happened to that pesky detective – he sort of wanted to see the light go out in his eyes, but until then there were far more enjoyable things to do. True, John looked at the screen in ensnared horror, and tried to plead with him – which made Jim more than a bit jealous, but soon he wouldn’t have to worry any longer. Kissing John under any pretext seemed like a good way to pass the time.

“You should just give up, you know,” Mary declared, smirking. This blog tells the future, now, and it says I will free Holmes and bring doctor Watson back to his work. I’m the best thing that could happen to them.”

“Oh well, if that’s the future that’s the future,” Jim agreed, meekly. He held out two keys. “This one is to open a panel under the screen – you’ll have to enter 0129010 to stop the concrete and unlock the nearby cell. As for the other, it opens John’s chains.” He threw the keys randomly in two directions, very far from each other.

“Why do that?” Mary inquired.

“To stall,” the madman replied honestly. “I’d rather not be here when the police arrives.”

A shiver went through John. Jim wasn’t the type to concede and flee. He wasn’t. But at least Mary was taking the key closer to her and saving Sherlock, and that was good. Very good.

While she was so busy, though, Jim took something from a shelf in the mostly-bare room. A gun. Specifically, John’s gun, the one he’d gifted his friend. While Mary’s back was turned, he smiled and shot her. He calmly walked towards her, and kicked her dying body. “Your blog had a serious flaw, baby. It only concerned one person – you. That gives you quite the blind spot,” he hissed.

“You would know. That’s the same flaw yours has,” John spit out, taking his gun out of the shocked hands of his captors and slapping him so hard that his face turned – and then again on the other side, for good measure.

“How?” Jim croaked.

“The key to my chain – you threw it near Stamford,” John explained, pointing the gun at Jim and taking a step backwards to put some space between them so it couldn’t be wrestled out of his hands.

“I thought he was still out of commission!” Jim protested, almost offended.

“Well, I’m good at pretending to sleep,” Mike said, smirking. He could have yelled at Jim, told him how insane he was – but instead he’d kept the tactical advantage (and made sure not to attract the man’s attention – only God knew what he could do.)

Just then Sherlock stormed in, but grinned at seeing John free. “Oh – you saved yourself,” he remarked.

“Not exactly,” the doctor replied. “And you and I – we need to have WORDS, Sherlock Holmes,” he added sternly. “As for _you_ ,” he hissed, turning at Moriarty “we don’t. I don’t want to talk to you anymore – see you, text to you, _anything_. Are we clear, Jim?” He took his phone back from the shelf his gun had been. “I’ll text DI Lestrade. You and your lackey might want to run.” Lestrade played. He wouldn’t tell him Jim played, too – he’d been friends with him and a death sentence wasn’t in his chords, no matter how betrayed and mistreated – but if the inspector was any good at his work he might discover it by himself.

“But John – I did it all _for you_ ,” Jim begged, tears in his eyes.

“Anymore, Jim,” John repeated – and keeping him in his sight, left the room and then the house with his friends.

“Sebaaaastian!” Jim yelled, as soon as the others left the room. To no avail. Sebastian had received a warning about Lestrade’s arrive as soon as that future had been in motion – which was not when John had decided to, but when Stamford’s hand had closed around the key to his friend’s chains (of course once free John would not have just forgiven Jim). And so, as any wanted man with any sense, he’d already fled. When Jim got him, he was going to give him a lesson his bad kitten wouldn’t forget so soon.


	27. Intercourse (in all the senses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. WARNINGS: VERY BAD FORM BDSM ( AKA BLOODPLAY AND ELECTRO...NOT SURE IF PLAY OR MAYBE STRAIGHT UP TORTURE HONESTLY, WITHOUT SAFEWORDS)

 

 

“I promise, John. I didn’t mean to - ” Sherlock pleaded, once they were safe inside his car and on the way to the hospital.

Before he could end that sentence, his friend cut in, growling thunderously, “I know I said we needed to talk, Sherlock, but not now. I’m late to work as it is and fighting the urge to punch you too. I’ve refrained myself so far just because you’re the one driving at the moment. Don’t push your luck.”

“Is someone going to explain things to me?” Stamford wondered, quietly puzzled. Life didn’t include, in his experience, kidnappings – much less murder or…vanishing people.

“No,” both men deadpanned in unison.

“It’s better for you, trust me, Mike,” the doctor added, sighing.

“What are you going to do about Mary? She…she…” the pudgy teacher trailed off, unable to word aloud what he had seen happen.

“She has a sudden family emergency,” the sleuth declared smoothly.

“Hate to agree with you now but yeah, that works,” John concurred. They couldn’t exactly reveal what had actually happened, could they? He didn’t fancy being sectioned. Who would believe them?

“That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Mike remarked, clamping down a hysterical laugh that involuntarily emerged. “I don’t want anyone coming after me, and I have a feeling that revealing this to someone else would get me a visit from your former friends, so I’m going to stick to it if anyone asks, too. But I have to say…no offence, John, but you pick some peculiar companions now.”

“None taken,” the recently rescued man agreed. What could you say to the truth?

Nurse Jordan was rather disappointed not seeing her colleague come back, but John assured her that she would soon return to her post once the circumstances had been resolved. He would handle his patients himself, without a nurse doubling as secretary. If he could handle a warzone, he could handle this (the general mood wasn’t all that different).

When, two hours after the end of his shift and without having taken a lunch break, the doctor was finally ready to leave, he didn’t expect to find Sherlock in his waiting hall. He had been really too knackered to check his blog’s updates, no matter how dangerous ignoring them could be. But John had figured out that his life had been eventful lately and he was due for a break. “What are you doing here?” he huffed.

“I’ve always been close at hand. Things have changed, John, you don’t know,” the detective admitted, looking rather manic.

“Fine, let’s talk. But you’ll need to do much more listening than prattling,” John cut in sternly. He might have been saved, but today had been entirely unacceptable, the mad sleuth had to get that.

The detective looked him over sharply, and decided, “At dinner. My treat. You won’t be reasonable until you’re fed. Is Chinese okay?”

 _John_ had to be reasonable? A choked groan of incredulity came from the blond, but he was famished, so he agreed.

Not long after, Sherlock exploited John munching on complimentary prawn crackers to blurt out, “The game’s changing.”

His friend hissed, “I don’t care. What the fuck were you thinking, involving Mary and bloody Mike Stamford into the game? She’s dead, and it’s your fault, and Mike could have been too!”

“I was thinking that even Jim Moriarty would be less inclined to blow everything up if someone was around whose body would leave behind actual evidence against him. You were my priority, John,” the sleuth explained coldly, unrepentant. If anything, his expression said that he found the accusation extremely unfair. The blood wasn’t on his hands.

“You can’t do that! As you have seen, Jim does not care about collateral damage,” John yelled. Thank God the place was almost empty, but he had to add quickly, “It’s all fine,” shrugging, to reassure a startled waiter who brought their starters. The man tiptoed quickly away. “He killed Mary,” the doctor pointed out in a lower but still angry voice.

“That’s the point. John, she wasn’t involved in the game – and then suddenly she was a contestant. For all we know, the game could be a sham, and your God would just keep creating new contestants until only his favourite remains. How do we win a rigged game?” the detective recounted, frowning.

“With your talent, easily,” John replied. He believed in Sherlock. But the man had to see sense. “About that, why didn’t you explain to Mary what the game was about and that you could save her from that?”

“Because I _couldn’t_ save her from the cement, while her new powers could. Did you think that she would have renounced them then? It’s not my fault that she got killed before that. Be angry at Moriarty,” the detective pointed out sharply. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Oh, I am. I am furious with him,” the blond assured vehemently. “That does not mean that _you_ are allowed to do things like that. Involving random people is _not on_ , Sherlock!”

“Then keep an eye on me,” the detective proposed, with an almost smirk.

“What?” John asked, puzzled. Shouldn’t he be able to trust his friend?

“Any day someone tries to kill you, or kidnap you, or something. Stay with me. You’ll have backup and make sure that I won’t be involving anyone innocent,” Sherlock elaborated. He needed to have John close – to reassure himself that he could protect his only friend. A short pause, and seeing the doctor’s still baffled face, he added a soft, “Please.”

“You are already involved, and mad as a hatter, I suppose, so…I know I’ll regret this, but okay, Sherlock,” John caved in finally. He shouldn’t be so happy at the prospect of leaving his lonely bedsit. He would pay for it, undoubtedly. Hopefully nobody else would.

In the meantime, on a different plane of existence, a faceless god glared at his faithful imp. Well, what he had believed was his faithful imp. “Repeat that.” _If you dare_ was very much implied.

“I wasn’t the one to come up with the game. But does it matter? You like it anyway,” the little creature admitted, shrugging. He demonstrated an exceptional cheek. “And to be fair, I _told_ you I’d given number eleven a trump card. You didn’t investigate then.”

 

“You didn’t tell me this was his bloody idea in the first place. Or how huge the effect of the cheat code you allowed him is,” the god chided, displeased. “How can anyone else win against that?” Even the mask seemed to be frowning.

“You know that the blogs are different depending on their owners’ thoughts and wishes. It’s not my fault that no one else was so clever,” Mormor replied, smirking. “And anyway, _anyone_ can still win against that. As long as they are good enough at IT and remember what they’re working with exactly rather than gaping at the magic foretelling bit. How clever is your favourite?”

“You underestimate him. Anyone underestimates him. He’s the only one who can surprise me,” Dyaus replied, but with a bitter tone.

“Did he disappoint you already?” the imp queried, gleeful.

“Everyone disappoints me all the time. You, too,” the god whined.

“Poor blue, bored Dyaus. Do you want some ice cream?” Mormor teased, grinning.

“Behave before I decide to annihilate you,” Dyaus warned sternly.

“But then you’d have much less free time. And you so enjoy your hobbies…” Mormor remarked, raising a playful eyebrow.

“Then you better work hard. Or I will end up hiring someone else,” the god quipped, teasing right back.

“Should we organise a game for that, too?” the imp queried, jumping on his superior’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. In lieu of replying, Dyaus swatted him away like an annoying fly.

Jim Moriarty texted his stray cat from the second rate hotel he’d checked in as Richard Brook. He might have an appreciation for the finest things in life, but now it was better to lay low. After giving his actual location, he added _Come here, pet. If you make me come fetch you I’ll be even angrier. JM_ Of course he knew how to find his subordinate. When he had Moran unconscious, Jim made Molly insert a gps tracker in the man’s back, under the skin. That was the proper conduct with one’s pet, after all.

 _Angr*ier*?_ Moran replied, as if he saw no reason for his boss to be upset.

 _Obviously. Quick march, Colonel! JM_ He wasn’t really required to explain, was he?

Fifteen minutes later, the sniper arrived. Jim was there, ‘welcoming’ him in the hall of the hotel. “What’s wrong, boss?” the former soldier queried, raising a puzzled eyebrow.

“You. Disappearing. On. Me,” Moriarty hissed, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and managing to be rather intimidating for such a comparatively scrawny bloke.

“We were about to have guests I’d rather not face,” Sebastian admitted, shrugging minutely without dislodging his boss.

“I didn’t give you permission to leave,” Jim growled, eyes aflame with rage.

“But I did it for you,” Moran quipped, a lazy, sensual smirk on his lips. “If you got yourself caught who was supposed to bust you out? Mummy might be good, but I doubt she’d manage to do it alone.”

“So you still wanted to save me despite how we started out?” Moriarty asked, letting him go, honestly taken aback by such a declaration. He thought that leaving was Sebby’s attempt to break free from his rule.

“You’re the only employer I’ve ever had who offers such nice rewards for a job well done,” the sniper quipped, leering openly.

“And you did what I asked – up to a point,” Jim acknowledged, a hungry gleam in his eyes. “You still have to apologise, pet. Twice. For disobeying and for thinking I’d be dumb enough to ever get caught.”

“Of course, boss,” Sebastian agreed, and he let himself be dragged by the wrist to Jim’s room – just a double bed, two tiny bedside tables, a closet who betrayed his name by not being able to close properly and a window without curtains or shutters.

“Get naked, pet,” Moriarty ordered sharply. On the other side of the road there were houses whose dwellers could easily peek in and see them if so inclined, but army had trained any shyness out of Moran (not that there was much of it to begin with), so he obeyed immediately. After all, last time had been lovely. Jim was rummaging inside a bag and took out a big coil of coarse rope.

“You grabbed _that_ while fleeing from the police?” Seb asked, sounding more amused than afraid.

“I always keep this bag in the trunk of my car, you never know when you can need this,” his boss replied, smirking.

“So how do you want me?” Moran asked, canting his hips in an unmistakably inviting move. Maybe Jim would forget about punishment if he got aroused enough.

Moriarty arranged him to his satisfaction with nods and wordless gestures, leaving him spread eagled and well secured to the four corners of the bed, plus with rope crisscrossing his torso and encircling his neck. “You disobeyed, Bast. Before we get to your reward, you’ll have to be punished,” Jim pointed out, clicking his tongue. “I bet you won’t fail me again afterwards.”

“Can’t I just say sorry?” the sniper said hurriedly.

“You’re not still…but you will be.”

His boss was insane. He should have remembered that before agreeing to this. When Jim searched inside his bag again only to emerge triumphantly with a taser, his pet’s eyes widened in panic. He fought wildly, but Moriarty was bloody good at knots – had he been a scout? “You. Do. What. I. Tell. You. When. I. Tell. You. And. Nothing. Else,” the madman stated, highlighting each word with a sharp shock – always to _very_ sensitive parts of his trapped underling’s anatomy.

Sebastian screamed himself hoarse, trashing as much as he could. Of course he did. Someone would have probably called the police if they’d heard – but they were the only ones in their storey (Jim had checked).

Until Moriarty had got bored with it, too, and encouragingly patted the other man’s left hip. “ _Now_ you are sorry about disobeying me, kitten,” he declared, grinning.

The sniper could only nod weakly, the rope at his throat making even this difficult.

“Now we have to deal with both your punishment for thinking me dumb and your reward. I think I will combine the two. I’m paying this room by the hour, after all,” Jim stated airily.

Now the look in Sebastian’s eyes was definitely fearful – though, when Jim went down on his cock like a man starved, he attempted a hoarse groan. His favourite boss, indeed. Insane, but nobody was perfect. And this time the reward for a job well done was even greater, because once Moran was nice and hard – to his absolute surprise – Moriarty let himself be taken. Well, not exactly, because trussed up as he was Seb could do very little in the way of fucking, but Jim rode him with abandon. God but the little minx knew how to give someone a taste of heaven.

Of course, the bloodthirsty fucker brandished a blade and started adorning Sebastian with ‘decorative’ cuts at the same time, but he had too many endorphins in his bloodstream at the moment to mind that much. What really worried the sniper was his boss’ warning not to come without permission. He didn’t know if he could do that…and really didn’t want to discover what would happen if he disobeyed the man _again_.

Between the blood loss and the heavenly sex Seb must have passed out, or maybe he was having an out of body experience, because suddenly Mormor was at his side, tugging on his arm and warning that ‘the boss wanted to talk to him’. What could he do but obey?

“It has been brought to my attention,” the god rumbled, “that someone might have an unfair advantage in this game. So I’m giving you a warning that you will do better not to forget. I gave you _blogs_.”

“I know that,” the man replied gruffly.

“As I said, do not forget it. They see into the future, yes. But at their core, they are still only blogs, fully functional as their homologues…and subjected to the same weaknesses,” Dyaus insisted.

“Are you saying they can get a virus?” Seb queried, raising a shocked eyebrow.

“Certainly…among other things. I do hope your mobile phone has an antivirus, dear,” the god chuckled. “And since you’ve liked the game since the start, I admit I am a little fond of you, tiger. So I thought I’d give you a gift.”

Moran smirked, smug. With his god’s favour, his chances of victory were going to go up considerably. He was shocked when the god’s taloned hand pierced his chest, setting it on fire. Jolted back into his own body, where Jim had decided to bloody stab him instead of cutting him up (if he didn’t hit anything major and had him bleed to death right there the man was a genius) , and was screaming, “Come, kitten!” Which Bast promptly did before unsurprisingly passing out to undisturbed blackness.

Jim was already texting Molly the address, admitting he might have gone a little far with their pet and that he needed medical assistance _now_. After all, her other patients could wait.

 


	28. Defense plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: still nothing mine.  
>  A. N. Sorry for updating so late. My awesome beta, am1thirtheen, readied this for me a few days ago (everyone, remember to bless her for keeping me on the straight and narrow). I’ve simply been too busy fighting with my family to remember this. Soo sorry.

 

 

The morning after saw John in Baker Street – luckily he didn’t have work today – with a suitcase. He was shocked to find the detective holding a bag of his own.

“No, no, we can’t stay here John, don’t be silly. I have a dear old landlady just a floor below. She might be less easy to intimidate than most, but you were the one who didn’t want to involve people. We’re going to my family home. My parents are on holiday, so it’s empty,” Sherlock declared, dragging him to the car.

Well, that turned out to be a gross misleading. (John needed to stop skimming the blog only to see if there was a dead end – but he liked being surprised sometimes.) When they arrived at the Holmes family house, somehow in the middle of nowhere in Sussex, Mike Stamford was there, with two cups of tea at the ready. “Oh! You have finally arrived! I have to say, John, your acquaintances are an interesting bunch,” his friend welcomed them with a grin.

John turned to glare at the sleuth. “I thought the point of this outing was to stop uninvolved people from being entangled in my…issue,” he growled.

“Sherlock told me that I might be more involved than I thought. And anyway, he didn’t leave us unprotected,” Mike interjected, placating.

“Us?” If anything, the blond’s glare intensified. There are more people inside? What happens to their goal?

“The people I assembled are not uninvolved. Well, I suppose now they are, but they originally weren’t, and I have not forced anyone to come. I just pointed out that you needed help, and everyone volunteered. And, as Stamford pointed out, I didn’t leave them unprotected,” the detective explained. He shrugged, took a cup from Mike and entered the house, nudging John to follow.

Which the doctor did – if only because the conversation was far from over. “This place doesn’t seem very protected to me. It’s not like we even have walls around the garden…” he grumbled, hating the way his friend seemed like he couldn’t comprehend his worries.

“We do not need one. We have police guarding the place. I asked Lestrade for a favour. And the fact that I did, and that I am tolerating the presence of such unpleasant people – however hidden, we want to catch your enemies, not keep them away, otherwise the situation will never be resolved – should tell you how serious I am about this,” the sleuth declared earnestly.

John sighed and finally took a sip of his own tea, which Mike had not given up in silently offering. Police. Lestrade. Yeah, that was good. He should have called the man earlier himself, really. If he’d ever had time to think things through. “This still doesn’t explain why you called Mike,” he wondered, bodily cornering the man.

It was Stamford who replied to that, looking at them with a clearly amused glint in his eyes. “He said that he needed my cooperation for an important experiment. And who am I to hinder the progress of science?”

“Finally someone who understands,” Sherlock praised, making no move to push John farther away from himself.

A warm chuckle startled John away from his friend. “Aren’t the two of you adorable?” a feminine voice purred.

“Don’t tease, Irene,” another just as sweet voice warned.

“Miss Adler? I thought you’d…left,” the doctor stammered, looking at the women incredulously.

“We did,” Kate confirmed. At least none of them was naked this time. Both of them were dressed in pant suits John was pretty sure cost more than half of his yearly wage.

“But Lockie here asked for help, and you wouldn’t know how much one can obtain by asking *nicely*,” the Woman concluded, winking.

Apparently the only word the doctor had retained from the conversation was, “Lockie?” he echoed, in a half-choked groan.

“I told you not to call me that, Irene! I could retaliate,” the sleuth growled, glaring at her.

“Do your worst,” the dominatrix replied, with a challenging smirk.

“Behave, everyone,” Kate ordered sternly, physically interposing herself between the two bickering geniuses and holding out her arms, as if to keep them apart.

“Oh no, please continue,” Mike egged on, grinning. He was clearly having the time of his life.

“Don’t, Mike” John scolded, turning to him.

“Uff. Fine,” the sleuth agreed, pouty lips showing he found so very unfair for the fight to be broken before he could have the last word.

“Whatever you want, love. Though I don’t know what Mr. Holmes needed us for. I offered to call some militarily-trained men I know for our protection and he refused,” Irene agreed, hugging her lover.

“Different agencies working for our safeguard would only step on each other’s toes, and I trust Lestrade. You, miss Adler, are here as a distraction,” the detective explained, shrugging.  

“Yes, clearly, but for whom?” John grumbled to himself.

“For whomever is mad enough to like that,” the consulting detective replied, nodding towards her.

“Hey!” Kate protested. She resented that – obviously.

Stamford, remembering reading to his little sister a lifetime ago, quoted, “Birds in their little nests agree.”

“And we are here to catch wannabe-murderers,” John pointed out evenly. Any bickering stopped abruptly.

“Right, about that – phone, Mike,” the sleuth ordered, holding out an expectant hand.

Noticing Irene’s worried frown at such words, the good-natured doctor hesitated, querying, “Don’t you have your own?”

“I do, but yours might get you in trouble. Phone,” Sherlock insisted.

“I have a sinking feeling that you didn’t mean I might have accidentally downloaded a virus,” Stamford remarked, handing it over and repressing a shiver of fear.

“Not really. You said that you had a blog on that nurse’s same website,” the sleuth stated, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“Yeah. Lots of people do, you know. Well, lots…at least a few hundreds. I suppose it doesn’t make it really a huge web phenomenon, but it’s free and really easy to customize,” Mike rambled on, frowning. Clearly he was wondering what was wrong with that. Everyone and their mother had a blog nowadays.   

“I’m in!” Sherlock yelled enthusiastically, eyes alight. Only a couple of minutes later, he groaned, “No! No, damn it! I’m out! This site has some bloody good firewalls.” The swearing was out of character for him, which should give a measure of his frustration.

“Keep us updated, love?” Irene drawled, sounding bored and ignoring Kate’s jealous glance.

“This blog platform does not work like any usual old server. If you go deep down enough, you will find a future blog. That is why it can share its foreseeing powers with these of his hosted bloggers whom the owner deems worthy of such, turning them too into contestants to be manoeuvred. Contestants that the owner of the original blog could take out simply by banning them from the server…oh, it’s clever! None of the other bloggers suspects a thing, and I am starting to think the original owner can exert a measure of control on the people he upgrades. Sadly, I got kicked out before I could disconnect the original future blog,” the consulting detective rattled out, still working on the phone, trying to get back in.

“Wait, what? Contestants? Foreseeing?” Mike yelped. Nobody could blame him if he panicked when the world stopped making any sense.

“I can give you the details later,” Irene offered, her voice a strange mix of pity and tease.

“We might not have a later,” Stamford remarked, walking forwards and backwards in panic. “If I got it, my blog can turn at any moment into something weird that would a) probably turn me into the puppet of someone I don’t even know and b) make me a murderer – murderers’ target, given what happened to Mary. Fuck! Can you stop that, Sherlock?”

“Will you all just shut up? I’m trying to do some serious hacking here!” the sleuth growled impatiently.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” John prompted, taking the phone away from resisting hands. “We can protect Mike, can’t we? We just have to delete his blog.”  Stamford nodded his fervent assent to the plan.

“No!” the detective protested, trying to snatch the phone back. “I’m having a hard enough time eliminating this one when I have his blog giving me access to it. If you erase it…”

“Too late. Done. Thanks, Mike. You gave us some precious information about one of our enemies. Now you can go home and forget it all. You’ll be safe, I promise,” John stated, giving it back to its owner, who nodded his thanks and gingerly left the house.  

“Idiot!” the consulting detective raged. Irene’s pointed look seemed to imply that she agreed with him.

“You’re a genius,” John replied, with calm faith, “you’ll come up with another plan.”

“Oh. Of course. I’m an idiot, John! I’ll just start a blog myself,” Sherlock exclaimed, shaking his head at his own stupidity. Truth was, he’d wanted to avoid having to do that in case the player activated him and somehow took control of him before he managed to crack the website, but he suspected that admitting as much would have angered John. Only seconds after, he growled, “What does it mean, error?”

Irene chuckled, “Do you need some help, baby?” earning harsh glares from both Kate and John.

Petulantly, the sleuth thrust his mobile phone at her, mumbling, “If you think you can do better.”

Even the dominatrix seemed unable to beat the website into compliance. Then again, she couldn’t seduce a server. After five minutes, she sighed, “So what’s plan C?”

“Killing everyone who tries to murder us?” the doctor proposed hesitantly. That was the default, wasn’t it? He still didn’t like that option, but what else could they do?

“Or…yeah, the blog owner will not come at you personally if he or she can send her lackeys. But these people’s powers and blogs depend on them accessing the server…The phone repeater is not too far from the house. If we disable it, these people will find themselves without knowledge of the future or special abilities,” the detective offered, with a growing smile.

“And I will too,” John pointed out, frowning.

“Your blog comes from a supernatural entity, John. I will be very much surprised if it is proven that it can’t bypass a simple annoyance like a momentary blackout,” Sherlock objected, rolling his eyes.

“And anyway if you are wrong we’ll be no worse than when  I was in Afghanistan – and I survived that,” the former army doctor recognised. He had military training. He doubted all these bloggers did too. Before he could relax, he heard a sound that made him shiver.

“Yuu-huu, Johnny boy! Don’t hide or I’ll seek!”

“Jim,” the doctor breathed, panic already mounting.

Irene raised a wondering eyebrow. She didn’t know who the man was, but she’d seen John’s reaction. “What are your guards doing?” she hissed.

“I’m afraid he’s too clever for them,” Sherlock mouthed, knowing she’d have experience in lip-reading. He caught John’s wrist and guided him to the upper floor, the others followed. Then he prompted, “You have to talk to him, John.”

The doctor shook his head, but faced with the sleuth’s stern look, he relented. Going out to the balcony, John queried, voice surprisingly steady, “I told you to stay away from me, Jim. What the hell do you want?”

Moriarty pouted. “But you need me, Johnny. For protection. I won’t let anyone hurt you, you know,” he mewled.

“Anyone else, you mean,” the doctor groused, frowning.

“Subtleties, Johnny boy,” Jim replied, with a crooked smile.

Sherlock went to the balcony too, putting a proprietary arm at the small of John’s back and interjecting, “Of course, Jim. You’re welcome to come up…if it is really John’s welfare that you are looking out for.”

John went rigid, but if for the unexpected touch or for the invite it was hard to say. “What are you doing?” the doctor hissed, with gritted teeth.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The last thing we need is him running around ruining our plans,” the sleuth breathed at his ear.

“Stop flirting right now!” Moriarty roared, running inside to separate them (it seemed Mike had kinda…forgotten to close the door perfectly on the way out – they’ll need to have words on that). When he rushed in the room with the balcony, Jim stumbled and fell. Someone had tripped him. A glance told the IT expert that it had been a smirking brunette – and another confirmed that the sleuth wasn’t crowding his intended anymore.

“Kate, please. You’ll find what we need in the drawer to your right,” the detective instructed, his voice rumbling.

Moriarty had just righted himself when a gentle but firm touch shackled his hands behind his back. “What the fuck?” he growled darkly.

But John was smiling when he received the relative keys, and quipped, “Not so fun being on the other side of it, uh?”

At that, the madman settled. “Oh well, if you want to play,” he purred, lowering his eyelashes coyly.

“What’s his safeword?” the dominatrix asked, with professional interest.

“I didn’t have one,” the doctor pointed out, glaring bitterly at their prisoner.

“Then some serious punishment is definitely in order,” Irene declared, clicking her tongue in disapproval. Even Kate frowned, looking outraged.

“Yes, well, all this can wait. Can I remind everyone that someone might make an attempt on John’s life at any time? The wildest threat is neutralized for the moment, but this doesn’t make us entirely safe,” the sleuth admonished his companions sharply.

“We know that, but what else can we do but wait?” Kate replied reasonably, shrugging.

“Have more tea?” John piped up. When awkward, always have tea. (And, right now, obsessively check his mobile phone. He really needed to stop ignoring it as much as he did.)  

 


	29. Plan in motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing at all. A.N. So…this month’s chapter is special. Not because of what hap-pens in it, but because of what happens around it. My precious beta am1thirteen, who pointed out Mirai Nikki to me in the first place, is going through a rough moment and needed to step down. Please, everyone, if you’ve enjoyed the story up to this point, send her way some positive waves, well wishes, prayers or whatever you are comfortable with. So, is this story suddenly going to make no sense? Fear not! FemChemGeek bravely stepped into the fray, and is making sure I do not make up words on the fly (it happens more often than you’d think :D). Dear readers, please welcome her! And now no more chatter. Please enjoy!

 

Tea was a good plan. Guaranteed to set overstrained nerves. And if you asked Irene, John was too much of a sweetheart. When his stalker pointed out that, handcuffed, he couldn’t enjoy the refreshments, she would have told him that he didn’t deserve any anyway, and have him settle on the floor where he belonged, like the animal he was. Instead the doctor sighed and assured, “We’ll find a way.”

When she saw the grin from the madman, clearly expecting his past victim to hold the cup to his lips, and enjoying that prospect way too much, she nodded to Kate. The things one did for friends.

Moriarty pursed his lips, refusing to drink when her sub offered him the cup, but one sharp glare from his stalker made him give up and take a sip. He pouted full-force though.

Honestly, Irene hoped that they would have time to deal with him before they were attacked. She didn’t doubt that she would be able to drive the ‘consensual’ bit of the rules into him. Maybe not the ‘safe and sane’, because she was used to judging people at a glance – correctly – and the man didn’t seem at all sane himself.

The dominatrix was automatically scanning the house for things that could be repurposed to teach their prisoner a much-needed lesson. Never let it be said that she lacked creativity. Hopefully Mummy Holmes was into handmade pasta. A pastry cutter wheel would supply her with a rather good approximation of a Wartenberg wheel. Though the sleuth didn’t look like someone who grew up to homemade lasagne…Pity.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes. Six bloody people,” John warned suddenly, voice tight.

“Our police guards?” Kate queried softly.

“Will miss them. Or not be able to stop them – the blog is not very detailed about it. No mentions of them at all, anyway,” the doctor replied, shrugging.

The dominatrix threw a smug smirk at the sleuth – the men whose cooperation she had offered would not have left anyone pass unnoticed. They knew better than to displease her. That always had consequences.

The consulting detective rolled his eyes. He trusted Lestrade with his life – and John’s life, which mattered much more – but he should have insisted for the DI’s own presence, not his men on the inspector’s orders. He thought that would be enough for them to behave, but the often-annoying detective should have remembered how much distaste most of the police force held for him. It wouldn’t surprise him if they chose to turn a blind eye to the attack out of sheer spite. “I am going to turn the repeater off. I’ll trust you to hold the fort – you’ll find that it is well equipped,” he stated getting up.

“Oh. That’s a relief. Thank you. Good luck. And…be careful. You don’t want to come across them, I’m not sure if they know NOT to kill people who are uninvolved in the game. Actually, maybe I should come with you. You’d be safer then.” John rambled quickly.

“And _you_ wouldn’t be. We have people and weapons here especially to protect you. It kind of defeats the point if you come along,” Sherlock replied sternly.

John frowned, because _he_ was the soldier, damnit (or at least a former soldier), but given everyone’s looks, they agreed with their host, so there would be no persuading all of them in time. They needed to act swiftly. “At least take this,” he muttered, handing his gun to the sleuth. “In case you do come across them and they are more trigger-happy than one would expect.”

The detective opened his mouth to protest, claiming his stealth was too great for him to need protection, or some such bullshit, when Jim protested in a high-pitched whine, “Hey! You can’t give away my gift!”

At that, whether it was to annoy the criminal or because he suspected anything coming from him might hide some form of foul play and he wanted to examine it later with more ease, Sherlock’s mouth shut abruptly and he accepted the weapon with a wordless nod of thanks, departing immediately.     

Irene cuffed their prisoner on the back of his head. “Shut up. You’re not off the hook and rapists’ gifts do not have sentimental value,” she growled darkly.

“I didn’t rape him,” Moriarty protested in a childish tone.

“You told me clearly I would have been someone’s sex toy before Sherlock’s rather ill-concocted rescue party arrived,” John reminded him sharply.

“We can discuss that later,” Kate, the soft-spoken voice of common sense, pointed out. “Let’s see if the house is as well-equipped as Sherlock promised.”

There were no more firearms for them to find – with the police around to protect them, the detective had thought best not to show off illegal weapons. Though a supple leathery whip with barbed spikes made Irene smile as if she’d just received a carefully thought out gift – which it might very well have been. Kate picked up a garrotte concealed in a long, soft, midnight blue silk scarf. There was no reason she couldn’t look stylish while protecting the man her mistress had charged her to. As for John, he went for a classic. There was an apparently decorative but not at all rusted couple of swords arranged in a trophy over the heart, so he took one. The balance was perfect.

When Jim whined, “And me?” the doctor only glared at him.

“I don’t trust you with a weapon. You’re rather fine in handcuffs, if you ask me,” he growled.

“But I want to protect you too!” Moriarty protested, pouting.

John sighed. “If you really want to be useful, you can be our strategist. Sherlock is out and you are good at thinking on your feet,” he conceded.

The madman beamed smugly, while the two women glared at John. They were fond of him – the fact that they chose to help when no one forced them was testament to that – but they clearly disagreed with his excessive softness.

Just then threatening yells were heard, and moments later the door was kicked in by six of the burliest orderlies of Saint Bart’s. It was useless to try to make them reason – obviously whatever hold their pc server owner/master had on them was too strong. Did everyone in the fucking hospital have an account on that bloody social media?

“Run along, John!” Irene yelled, cracking her whip threateningly. “We’ll hold them down!”

“But,” he protested, unwilling to leave the battle.

“They won’t kill the girls, nobody wants extra dead bodies to deal with!” Jim hissed in his ear, tugging with his bound hands at the doctor’s arm. “Besides, they’ll follow _us_.”

Which was what convinced the former army doctor to run along. That, and seeing Kate, with all the grace of a ballet dancer, spin around one of their enemies, run her deceptively flimsy scarf around his throat and squeeze until the man was not dead, but passed out and harmless.

John and his prisoner took refuge on the upper floor, and Moriarty earnestly urged, “You have to take these off! You can’t trust the girls to take care of everyone, and you’ll want help to deal with the enemy.”

“I am the soldier, Jim. What sort of help do you think you can be against these people?” John snapped, roughly shoving him in a more distant – and hence hopefully safer – room. Not to disparage anyone, but the IT tech lacked training and vigor to be of any help.

“Former soldier,” Jim hissed, stumbling and stubbornly going back to his obsession’s side. “And try me, damnit!”

Now that was downright insulting – pointing out how John had been dismissed from the army. Captain Watson glared darkly at his former friend.

Before they could continue bickering, though, three of their enemies barrelled upstairs. The fact that having a row had made both men forget to hold the easier to defend top of the stairs was evidence for the seemingly not obvious enough fact that ex friends were possibly the worst choice for a team.

The attackers had no firearms, but one had stolen Irene’s whip. That made John worry over her fate, but he couldn’t start doctoring until he got rid of these bullies. Another of them had a meat cleaver that looked like he’d borrowed it from a butcher – nothing as vicious-looking had been in the Holmes’ kitchen. As for the third one, he was apparently unarmed but had a shark-like smirk that said he did not think himself at a disadvantage.

Like predators, they circled their two victims, keeping distant enough to dodge John’s sword. A few more inches of height and arm length would be welcome right now, especially when the whip guy decided to test his newly acquired weapon. He didn’t wield it with the Woman’s dexterity, but damn, that still hurt.

That John did not drop his blade even when hit on the wrist and was, instead, quick enough to dispatch meat cleaver guy (who had really picked an impractical weapon for a fencing match), was testament to his fight training. Yes, the man he killed might have been a mindless pawn and not exactly guilty, but unless Sherlock managed to disconnect them, they still counted as players in Dyaus’ insane game and bloodthirsty. Thank Dyaus that he deemed them fair kill, so no odd explanation to the police supposed to protect them (and where the fuck were they?) would be needed.

Things looked slightly up. One enemy down, another without weapons. The doctor just wished they wouldn’t have included Jim in their ‘prey’ assessment, so he wouldn’t have to worry about him. (He should have freed the man…but he dared not.)

John was still concentrating on the whip wielder, keeping watch on the supposedly unarmed one from the corner of his eyes and nothing more, when the man lunged suddenly at him, only to find Jim’s body on his way. The fact that the bastard wasn’t as weaponless as he looked, and had clearly been hiding a knife all this time (even pawns could evidently have different inclinations and strategic abilities) was only an additional side to this nightmare.

Jim went down with a soft moan, and John’s momentary distraction at the sight might have cost a lot to the doctor if his enemies had picked that moment to gang up on him. Thank God, it seemed that at that very second Sherlock managed to disconnect the line.

Weapons were instantly dropped, people blinking dazedly before instinctually starting to respond as any good nurse would in the presence of both a wounded man, and a vaguely acquainted doctor. Explanations could wait.

John sent one of them downstairs to check if other people needed help (had they killed Irene after all?). Thankfully, the knife’s blade wasn’t too long, and it had missed any major organs or blood vessels. “You’ll be as right as rain soon,” the doctor assured Jim after finally freeing his hands. How much damage could the man do, injured as he was? At the same time, he wondered where the Holmes family kept the first aid kit. He should have really asked Sherlock before the sleuth left.

“Have I ever been?” Moriarty quipped back, trying to hold onto John so he would be the one to keep pressure on his wound instead of the burly and, frankly speaking, rather unappealing nurse.

“Honestly, you are a mystery to me,” the blond sighed. The man who kidnapped him had just bodily shielded him from harm. Talk about mixed messages. It had been a while since his life had stopped making any sense.

“Well, at least I’m not boring,” the madman laughed weakly.     

                     


	30. Behind the mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing still.

 

 

Thankfully, John discovered that Irene and Kate had been knocked out by their enemies, and not maimed or – Dyaus forbid – killed. He would never have forgiven himself if that happened. But for the one that had been rendered unconscious by Kate, no one else was around, so he had to presume the girls managed to kill them – the reasons they were unconscious and not dead, probably.  

He asked the nurses’ help to bring Jim downstairs, who whined he was too weak to move anywhere but in a bed (as if John would indulge him!), so he could look over all his patients without running up and down the stairs, and they complied quickly. 

Still, despite his natural authority as the doctor in attendance, he had a hard time persuading the two men that they did not need to call an ambulance, which would have required them to leave the safe area and so almost certainly turn back into murderous thugs. Could they do anything from a distance? And how long a distance was that anyway? That was, unless John wanted to admit that he had a supernaturally powered phone. 

Did he have to explain what they had become unwittingly involved with? He supposed he should, but having to deal with their inevitable freak out on top of everything else wasn’t high on John’s priorities’ list. At least not while he was alone. 

Jim didn’t count. He kept moaning softly, in a way that made his former friend more embarrassed than sympathetic to his plight. It was obvious that the IT tech wasn’t in the mood to be of any further help. Not that the doctor wasn’t grateful for what he’d done already. Still, John couldn’t help but wonder longingly when would Sherlock be back home. 

Soon, luckily. Even if apparently Donovan picked that exact moment to guard the front of the house instead of the back (or wherever she’d shirked duty until then). She’d clearly watched too many Lupin III episodes in her youth, too, because the sergeant felt the need to check that the sleuth wasn’t an admirably disguised master criminal. Sherlock should have issued an official complaint, really. The smile he received from John at his return, though, made any annoyance he felt instantly melt away.

“Oh, thank God, Sherlock! Help me explain,” the doctor blurted out, triggering an angry, wordless growl from his wakeful patient.

“Naturally,” the detective agreed, before continuing smoothly, “I am sure that you are aware of the destructive potential of subliminal messages. It has been proven that the website that hosts your blogs contains dangerous ones, likely to unconsciously drive people to violence.”

Oh. That was…clever, thought John. It skipped the whole ‘there is a God, and He’s not a being full of love and justice, but a bored, bloodthirsty one’ bit, that would probably cause mental breakdowns.

“Can that really happen?” asked the smarter of the nurses, frowning uncertainly. To everyone’s relief, he did not ask the much harder to answer question, “Why would anyone do that?”

The sleuth did not try to defend his position vocally, risking to dig himself in a mire of vague data and awkward urgency to persuade. He simply raised a disdainful eyebrow and nodded toward the battlefield in front of them. 

The nurse looked around, too, and cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, feeling extremely foolish. Had he and his friends really done all that? Well, obviously they had, but he still couldn’t wrap his mind about it. They had attacked – women, even, and he didn’t remember why. And he’d never taken drugs in his life. “Sorry,” he muttered meekly. 

“Not your fault,” the detective replied magnanimously. “Though for everyone’s sake you should cancel your account on that site.” 

“Of course. I’ve never meant to hurt anyone. I mean…I’m a nurse!” the man agreed, his friend nodding vigorously. 

“I am rather good with tech. I think I can disconnect them if you give them to me,” Sherlock offered. “You never know, these websites often bury themselves into your devices in such a way that simply cancelling your account might not be enough.” 

“But won’t you be affected by the subliminal messages and rampage, too?” the other, till now silent nurse queried, biting his lip worriedly. 

“I will be very quick,” the consulting detective promised. “No time for them to hook into my brain.” He held out his hands, and received both phones. His reply had been a bit of a gamble, but if one thing was highly probable was that they, like the majority of people, would loiter away hours on their social media of choice.

Now he had two more occasions to try and break into the server, and finally disable it. John would be happy and praise him. Since he was in a no signal area, his friend would be safe from any other puppets at least. Someone who’d developed a blog to manipulate people would play it safe and wait for him to be vulnerable to his or her minions again, surely? Killers did not easily change their modus operandi. 

Still, a shiver ran down the sleuth’s back while leaving his friend again. He’d almost thought ‘leaving him alone’, but John was far from alone, wasn’t he? To the consulting detective’s displeasure, with Irene and Kate momentarily out of commission, his friend had no companions he could trust.

But the ‘server’ contestant had to be taken out, or John would be forced to live in a permanently disrupted area, and that simply wasn’t feasible. He’d want to go back to his job someday. Finally reaching a serviced zone, Sherlock grumbled to himself. It had taken him a while…Fine, he might have gone a bit overboard with the actual range he sabotaged, to make sure an eventual second wave of attackers would be freed from conditioning, too. 

This wasn’t a normal social media website. Who the fuck could do a job so thorough as to keep  _ him _ out? His first thought went to Moriarty, but if he was behind this, there was the chance his plan would not have worked out, with the source of orders that close to his lackeys. Supernatural power would probably have kicked in then. 

Besides, Jim had helped John. And they already knew his blog. Even if the madman was the type to organize a Munchausen by proxy situation (which the detective wouldn’t put past him), surely nobody could have two blogs, could they? 

In the meantime, John’s phone vibrated with an update, but he couldn’t check it without revealing that his phone inexplicably worked. Not unless he left his patients, which he was reluctant to do. Jim could talk circles around anyone, after all. Anyway, he’d been attacked once already today. His enemy would be wondering about what happened, rather than trying anything this soon, surely? And as long as he didn’t leave Jim alone to plot, the madman was not in any condition to overpower him. The doctor shrugged his worries away. 

What he didn’t expect was his boss ringing the bell. “Sarah? What?” he queried, raising a puzzled eyebrow. Once again, Donovan was nowhere in sight. Just brilliant.  

“I know it’s your day off, John. But I am missing a couple of nurses, and this was the last place their phones listed them in,” she replied, smiling kindly and walking in without waiting for his leave.

“You keep your employees’ phone under surveillance, now? That’s a bit not good,” he chided, suspicious. Nevermind that it should be wrong – wasn’t Sherlock with the phones back in working range already? 

“Nah. I just have an account on that blogs’ site that is so popular among my workers, and I’m a bit crafty myself in the IT department,” she purred, taking a step to crowd him against a table that had survived the fight. 

If John hadn’t been concerned already, he definitely would be now. Actually, he was rather alarmed. Still, he made no sudden moves. Not everybody present would understand. 

Annoyed, Jim complained, “Then why did you hire me at all?” mostly to interrupt her from attempting – or even just pretending – to flirt. 

“Oh, you’re  _ very _ useful, Jimmy. I play around. You’re a professional. A reckless professional, it appears. Jones, Dale, get back to proper work. At the hospital. I’ll take care of the situation here,” she ordered briskly. 

The two nurses scrambled away, while the IT tech grumbled under his breath, “My name is not  _ Jimmy _ .” 

John tensed up. Without interlopers, now the game would be serious. He faced not a puppet, but a contestant.                                        

“You’ve been very clever, John,” she praised, acknowledging the truth, but for some reason still not making a move. Did she really think that she could lull him into a false sense of security? 

“Not my plan,” he replied, shrugging. “I’m honestly surprised that you would make a move yourself, when your whole strategy is about manipulating others.”

“And you successfully thwarted that. You would never leave your safe haven if you knew what was good for you, and I didn’t look forward to you outlasting me. No matter one’s wishes, I’m afraid that in the end doing things by yourself is the only solution,” Sarah stated, pouting. “I’ll be really sad to lose you, though. You were a fantastic doctor,” she added, her use of past tense ominous. She didn’t contemplate losing. Why? What had she planned? 

Refusing to show fear, John offered her a threatening smile and quipped, “Likewise, Sarah.” In a different world, without a sadistic god, their relationship might have been much more pleasant. 

For all her boast, her plan was rather crude: snake-like quick, she brandished a lancet – which must have been hidden in her sleeve – and tried to stab John. She went for his throat, but when he grabbed her wrist, she quickly switched to attempting to force the blade to pierce his body just anywhere. She didn’t expect him to be so strong. She started fighting wildly, trying to knock his leg from under him, attempting a headbutt and just acting out anyway she could think of. 

It didn’t last long, though. Her wrist slammed against the edge of the table, she lost her weapon, and soon was subdued, held down by her colleague. “I am disappointed, truly, Sarah. You didn’t read my curriculum at all, did you? Former army captain. Did you really think I wasn’t trained in hand-to-hand combat?” he quipped. 

“I did read it, but you tricked me,” she complained, her voice a high-pitched whine. “The army ditched you as unfit to fight any longer, after all, and you hobbled around my clinic like a wounded teddy bear…but you’re not just apt to cuddle, are you?” 

“Just kill her now, darling. Her conversation is so  _ dull _ ,” Jim cut in. “And she’s an idiot. You’ll assist the NHS by taking her out, really,” he added. 

John felt her going rigid in his arms, clearly waiting to have her neck snapped. She no longer doubted that he could. “Shut up, Jim,” he grumbled instead. “Sherlock will want to see her, anyway.” 

“What? Why? He doesn’t even  _ play _ !” Moriarty protested, eyes alight with jealousy. 

Something kept John from admitting the truth. Sure, having Jim here might be an occasion to have his blog disconnected. Unless Sherlock insisted still on keeping him in the game for some reason, for example counting on him to take down some more contestants on his own, that was. Despite that, revealing their trump card to the madman looked like a bad move, and the soldier had learned to trust his gut feeling. So he simply replied, “But he’s clever.” 

Jim’s frustrated, wordless growl clearly showed what he thought of such praise. 

John repressed a sigh, just hoping that Irene or Kate would wake up soon, so he might have someone who understood to talk to. With a bit of manoeuvring, he managed to tie Sarah to a chair. “Now that we’re all cosy, we can wait for Sherlock to come back,” he declared, with a satisfied grin.

“Bo-ring,” Jim yelled. 

“You have a bookshelf within reach, so why don’t you look for something to entertain yourself with, Jim?” the doctor proposed, keeping in a sigh. 

The bound man looked pointedly at his trapped hands.

John shook his head. “Just look. if you find a book you want, I’ll get it for you,” he promised. He might be too stern, but he couldn’t trust the man anymore. 

Instead of obeying, Jim somehow managed to reach with his handcuffed hands the drawers of a desk opposite the bookshelf, and started rummaging among the contents.  John raised a disapproving eyebrow, suspecting Sherlock would not approve of such invasion of privacy, but in the end did not push the issue. Arguing with Jim would mean giving him attention, which was exactly what he wanted. 

Better to check on Irene and Kate again. The fact that they were not coming to yet made him afraid that he might have missed the seriousness of their injuries. John had just bowed over the dominatrix, when he heard Sarah yell, “Oh God!”, and an ominous whooshing sound. 

The blond turned just in time to see her pierced by a dart between the eyes. She let out a wordless scream, and then disappeared, as all other victims of Dyaus’ sadistic game. On the other side of the room, a hunched Jim held a blowpipe in his lips. “Goddammit Jim! Where did you get that?” John shouted, frustrated. 

The madman spat it on the floor and nodded towards one of the open drawers. “Sherlock wasn’t kidding when he said that the house was well equipped,” he admitted grudgingly.

John could only roll his eyes. The sleuth acted on their best interest, and what was done was done. He’d mourn the senseless killing later. 


	31. When some things start making sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing still.   
> A.N Sorry everyone, no new chapter yet. This is just the new and improved version of last month’s chapter. My dearest Chrwythyn – who’s actually British, so yay for Britpick, finally! – volunteered to be my beta, so finally the random typos and grammar errors that littered my previous version are gone. I promise, a new chapter is coming later this month. I’d just like to remind everyone, once again, that any view on love and/or sex expressed in this chapter belongs strictly to the characters. Also, Dyaus clearly objects to my plans for this story. Not that I’m surprised. ;-)

The echo of the scream had just vanished – and Sarah with it – when the front door was kicked in, and Donovan (John remembered her from his run-in with Lestrade) and another bloke rushed in. The doctor barely held in a snort. _Timing_ , really. When there was brutal fighting going on, they hadn’t deemed necessary to check, had they? He was starting to think that Sherlock’s rants about the uselessness of the police force might have a point.

“We heard screaming,” the sergeant growled.

“What’s happening here?” her partner added, glaring.

“Nothing that you need to be concerned with,” John replied, “all the people who threatened us have already fled. I am a doctor, and I can deal with the hurt persons here by myself, don’t worry.” If he was curt, well, the situation warranted it, didn’t it? How much more inept could these so-called upholders of the law be?

“We might even report you as incompetent,” Jim piped in from his corner.

“If all the criminals have already escaped, why are you handcuffed? I’m starting to think we should bring _you_ to the station,” Sally replied, glowering.

“Then you can issue your complaint…if someone will believe you,” the other policeman mocked, raising an eyebrow.

Jim let out a long, throaty chuckle. “Oh, God. How positively _innocent_ of you. Have you never branched out a bit in your play? Strictly vanilla? I pity your partners. You must be so boooo-ring,” he sing songed.

Both John and the policemen blushed deeply. The doctor realised he couldn’t disabuse the cops, not without explaining why he’d bound Jim. Reporting him and getting him in jail now that the obnoxious prick had acted like a human shield, when he didn’t in the heat of the moment, seemed ridiculous.

As for the poor bobby, he stammered, “I…you…how dare you…” becoming redder and more incoherent by the minute.

He was luckily rescued by his partner, who purred, “Boring? How trite of you, midget. I can assure you that Phil is a perfect lover. There is no need to go with whatever mainstream game you’ve read about, when you’re truly in harmony with your soulmate.”

“Or when you lack imagination – the both of you, actually. Well paired, I’ll give you that,” Moriarty quipped, with a too-toothy grin.

“How _dare you_ insult Sally!” the man – apparently named Phil – growled, marching towards the madman, hands clenched into fists.

However mixed John’s feelings were about the annoying lunatic, Jim was still his patient. He wouldn’t let a clearly unprofessional and incompetent cop beat him to a bloody pulp, even if it looked like Moriarty was exactly after this, given the amount of goading he’d exerted. The doctor took a quick step forward, putting himself between the officers and Jim. Entirely unthreatening, but clearly not going to move. “Now, now, officers. There is no denying that Jim is an idiot who delights in getting on people’s last nerves. But he’s hurt already, and police brutality is really unwarranted in this moment,” he said. He tried to be placating but he found anyone who’d attack an already wounded person too loathsome not to be sterner than it was probably advisable.

To John’s surprise, both officers levelled him with a look of total disgust. Annoyance he expected, anger maybe…but disgust? He was a doctor doing his job. What would inspire that?

“Have you considered that maybe he acts out because you don’t respect him?” the sergeant chided sternly.

John could only gape. “What?” How was the fact that Jim was madder than a hatter his fault? True, the cops lacked lots of relevant data, but still, how did they deduce this from their short interaction? Bunch of incompetents, indeed.

The other policeman growled, “That you would insult your lover to his face and in front of two strangers is absolutely…unnatural. You should treat your beloved like a princess… errr, prince… whatever. I bet the idea of these twisted games was yours, too. Pervert!”

The doctor was again left wordless. Did he _look_ like a pervert? When had he stepped through the looking glass and ended in Alice’s world? (The day he met Dyaus, probably, to be honest.)

Once again, Jim chuckled seductively. “For truth’s sake, I am the one who insists on spicing up things in the bedroom. Like most people with a high IQ, I have an abysmally low boredom threshold. I don’t expect you to understand my plight, obviously. But thank you for defending me, officer. Does this mean that we are all friends now?”

John rolled his eyes. “If you stopped for a moment trying to insult them, maybe, Jimmykins,” he remarked. If he had to go along with the pretence of being the man’s lover, lest it all look even more suspicious than it did already, he might as well take advantage of the occasion to use the most ridiculous pet names he could come up with.

Both policemen – _again_ – glared daggers at Moriarty, but at least they didn’t try to circumvent John to teach him a lesson. Jim, instead, whined, in his most grating voice, “But muffin! You know I _hate_ that nickname!”

The doctor allowed himself a brief smile. Mission accomplished, then. If Jim was trying to pay him back the same way, he failed. God knew that muffin was not the worst thing he’d been called by a lover, fake or otherwise.

“How can you purposefully disrespect your partner – again? And smile about it?” Philip chided, frowning deeply. “Do you love him at all?”

“You know, Phil, beloved, I think he doesn’t. Not at all,” Donovan declared. So the police did have some ability to notice what was right in front of their faces. In a limited way, of course.

John barely refrained from stating as much out loud. He was supposed to be the one who did not antagonise people needlessly.

But then the sergeant continued, “I was very put off finding the guy here, because, well, Phil, you know me…I am a hopeless romantic. I could never murder someone in front of their soulmate. But if this bloke never truly loved him, we can do what we set off to do, I think. Why, we could be doing handcuffs boy here a favour. By all accounts, he should thank us on his knees later.” She smirked cruelly, and her partner nodded eagerly.

“What?” the doctor totally-not-yelped. “You were supposed to protect us!” Though if the fuckers wanted them dead, it made sense that they did such an abysmal job at it.

“That’s the best cover isn’t it? Nobody will believe that we killed you ourselves. We have Lestrade’s orders to be here. True, your mysterious disappearance will not be the brightest note on our reports, but nobody else will be able to figure out what happened here, either, so we won’t be blamed too much,” the sergeant gloated, sneering at them.

“What do you say, honey? Do we warn Lestrade that we’re investigating our charge’s mystifying disappearance?” Phil queried, grinning and looking at Sally Donovan entirely besotted. He took out his mobile phone, perhaps to underline his proposal. 

“He’s friends with the freak for some odd reason. better not. He might rush over to check and catch us at work, sweetie,” she pointed out, taking her phone out herself despite her words.

Of course. If they played, they’d both want to be able to check their blogs at a moment’s notice. Dyaus-powered ones were the only mobile phones who worked here and now after all.  Just John’s luck that these two had formed an alliance too. It couldn’t be as easy as pitting one against another and sitting back to enjoy the show for once, could it?

At least English cops were not issued guns. It seemed these people did not requisition one either, because they would surely have whipped them out by now. Thank God for people’s idiocy. Thank Dyaus? No, concentrate. He needed to take the threat seriously, even if these lovesick lecturing fools made it almost impossible.

Both cops lunged at him, coordinating, and it seemed they were not disarmed – they did have stab weapons, and were these SAP gloves, now that he looked better? If he was rendered unconscious, they could end him in peace afterwards.

Despite the abundance of weapons in the house, John was unarmed at the moment. He’d really thought they were finally safe, despite hearing the update warning of his blog when Sarah disappeared. Never mind. He would be able to deal with them. He had his training.

Jim whined, “The key, Johnny!”

He didn’t want to, but – while ducking to avoid being cornered – he did take the key from his pocket and threw it in the general direction of the madman. True, he wanted to believe that he could take them on, but in case he failed, he couldn’t leave his former friend trapped without a way to defend himself. “Tactical retreat!” he yelled.

it was only a question of time before the officers realised they had two, not one players there – the doctor bet on Sally to be the one who understood – and with Jim in his condition, he couldn’t fight back effectively. There should be no more deaths in this game. Not anymore. Sarah’s already weighed on his soul.

The IT tech, for once, didn’t argue and hobbled out of the way. None of their enemies favoured him with a look. At least not until, from behind a closed and – hopefully – locked door, Jim yelled, “Duck right!”

John knew better than ignore that. He was keeping an eye on his own blog, obviously, but the thing’s limit was that it mentioned events from his own point of view. If he missed something, his blog would too. But Jim’s would certainly report if and how his beloved (stalked) one was about to be hurt. Bless the man’s obsession.

The policemen stopped for a second, sighing, “Aaaawww! True love!” in unison, and John wondered if they would accept his offer if he explained Sherlock’s power or if it would be a waste of breath to disclose it.

Anyway, that was a conversation he’d rather have with a solid barrier between them. Just in case they didn’t believe him. John ran up the stairs again. At least, that would lead them away from all his patients. He could deal with the situation… Somehow.                 

 


	32. Two on one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am still not owning anything. Obviously.

 

 

If any of the people involved had been thinking clearly, John’s strategic move would have turned lethal for Jim. The stalker’s very helpful yell should have clued anyone with two brain cells to rub together in to the fact that he had a future blog, too. Obviously, any wise predator would have gone after the wounded prey first.

But clearly the smitten couple had at best only one neuron each, and whatever rubbing they indulged in was not enough to spark them into working properly. So they ran upstairs, too, chasing the doctor and shouting, “You can’t escape!”,

“Love will prevail!” and other such nonsense.

John barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Since when had slogans won fights? What did they mean to do, annoy the enemy to death? Oh. Apparently, they had further lines of action than just shouting. It should be worrying, but was actually a relief. He didn’t need a brusque adrenaline drop right now.

The doctor had managed to put a very solid looking door between them, taking refuge in a rather interesting bedroom, with stuffed animals – not of the plushy, but of the ‘once they were alive’ kind – looking down at him from frames on the walls. Bit creepy, honestly.

Two bodies colliding violently with the door left John wondering how long it could hold on. Running up, he’d taken both sword and whip – no need to leave weapons for them to use. Realising that the door was about to give up nonetheless, John slammed the door open and thrust with the sword, planning to pierce at least one of them. He hoped that the decision was whimsical enough (or, to speak frankly, unwise enough) that, however Dyaus calculated his thought processes, the God hadn’t anticipated that move from him.

Sadly, it was useless. Apparently only Jim was ‘changeable’ – or downright nuts – enough that not even a God could keep track of his scattered ideas. And now John had lost his primary defence, because they’d thrown a settee in – clearly taken from another room – to stop him from closing the unstable door again. Anyway, that was likely to fall at another good nudge and possibly hurt him if it got him. Forget the effing door. Concentrate on trying to subdue the two idiots.

Seriously, they were two against one, but who was relaxed enough in a fight they had to believe was to the death to check out the décor of the room? They sneered at it, remarking things like, “It looks like a fucking serial killer’s room. I bet it’s the freak’s!”

John refused to be distracted by the awful conversation and clamped down the urge to defend his friend. It was entirely out of place now. Instead, he observed his adversaries carefully, and came to a realisation. They were so cocky because they absolutely trusted each other. A shared look, a nod was enough for them to understand their partner’s warning. More than once he’d attacked one who seemed unforgivably distracted, only to be unable to hit them, when their partner snapped their fingers or signalled in some other minor way.

The doctor had managed to reverse their positions, leaving the bedroom relatively unscathed, and slipping between them, only because their strength was their weakness too. They were so focussed on each other that John’s training to escape threats worked, even in the limited space. Dyaus bless his choice to be a doctor. Of course, the army had taught him to fight, but his first line of action was supposed to be to elude engaging the enemy unless it was absolutely unavoidable or he was directly ordered to, because he couldn’t treat his patients if he was taken down.

It was a stalemate, because no matter what he did John couldn’t hurt, much less incapacitate them. Maybe he should have chosen the whip, which he'd thrown haphazardly in a drawer. Truth was, the former army captain was loathe to use a weapon he couldn’t control perfectly.

Thank Dyaus that these people were too fond of hearing themselves talk to really give their all in a fight. Now it was the man, boasting, “Just give up your life. You will never be able to hurt us. We will protect each other to the end. I’ll never allow you to land a finger on my adored Sally. Love is the most powerful force in the universe, don’t you know? Your partner abandoned you. Why would you even want to live at all?”

This time John rolled his eyes openly. Did they really think that he could be talked into dying, even if he’d really cared deeply for Jim? If he did, he would have wanted his already hurt lover out of the way even more.

Besides, not hearing from his stalker gave him confidence. The man evidently knew that the doctor could hold his own. Yes, they weren’t exactly on the best of terms right now. But however flighty the technician was, there was no way that he’d go in a blink from taking a hit for him to letting him be murdered without making a peep.

John just needed to keep them engaged until Sherlock came back home. Then he could sit them down and explain that there was no need to murder each other at all. Sadly, without his friend’s corroboration and actual immediate demonstration, there was no way these idiots would believe him.

Surely, they would accept the sleuth’s offer. With all their spiels about love, and having both chosen a job to _protect_ people, they would welcome the chance to stop killing. If they were drunk on the prospect of power, the former captain would get rid of them without an ounce of remorse. With both Sherlock and Jim on his side and in the house, he really believed that there was no way this weird duo wouldn’t be ultimately defeated.

It was just that John would have loved it, if – for once – every effing player did not pick him for a target. Was Jim right to claim that John’s actions attracted every contestant to him? The couple worked with DI bloody Lestrade. If anyone had to sniff out the inspector’s involvement in the game, it had to be his colleagues, right?

Why didn’t they fight it out between themselves? Oh, right. Lestrade actually had a conscience and wouldn’t murder anyone without being attacked first… and these two retards (with apologies to people with actual learning disabilities, who were undoubtedly much more sensible) would never figure out what wasn’t spelled out for them.

The doctor could hold them down. Just a little more. Sherlock was certainly about to come back, wasn’t he? He would realise that Sarah’s blog wasn’t up anymore. Actually, he might complain about the state of the house… The two cops had caused much more damage to the rooms and furniture than six burly nurses had done. Couldn’t they show a bit more respect?

True, they thought it was a fight to the death, so if they lost, they wouldn’t have to worry about needing to refund the damage… but what if they won? Did they expect Sherlock to wave away the trashing of his house, when they’d been unable to protect the people they were supposed to in the first place?

“Clumsy,” John taunted, when they missed him – again.

“That was… on purpose,” the policeman growled, panting slightly.

“Yeah, sure,” the doctor agreed genially, but rolling his eyes in his mind. Well, that almost made him miss the sergeant’s attempt of a sneak attack. Without his blog, he would have, so distracted by their antics he was… So maybe the other man did have a point.

Was this how they captured criminals? Putting up such a comedy act that they lowered their guard? Never mind, he needed to figure out a way to handle them. Separate them, perhaps, but they knew their strength was in their teamwork. The smitten couple would not willingly part. Could he manage to divide them anyway?

After all, he could slip between them – why? Did their blog only mention if their loved one was about to be hurt? If so, it would allow him to, say, slam a door closed between them if nobody got hurt. Or was it a stalker’s blog, like Jim’s? Most probably like Jim’s, but it was worth a try.

Right. No. The wounded duck – or at least, exhausted duck – routine had worked in luring Donovan into another room – a nice, classy but small boudoir. John twirled around her to slam the door before her partner could join her and corner him into helplessness. The officer seemed used to stay half a pace behind her, perhaps because he was lower ranked. The doctor’s trick not only failed… he received a reinforced punch on his shoulder.

A voice echoed over his grunt of pain. “Attacking the one you were meant to protect? Tut, tut. This earns you a serious punishment on my books, dearies,” the Woman declared sternly.

She’d come to, then. Well, they’d come to – Kate was with her, helping her support her weight. Still a bit dazed, then. John tamped down on the urge to check on them. they might be concussed, though if her Dominatrix persona was intact it was improbable that her brain had been damaged.

The man turned viciously towards her. “How dare you?” he hissed venomously.

Irene laughed, the sound clear and demeaning. “It is my work to keep naughty kids in line… and make sure everyone enjoys themselves in the process,” she murmured, her tone suddenly warm, seductive power maxed up.

The distraction she offered allowed John to finally trap the sergeant in the other room, and Donovan immediately started growling, “What’s happening? Phil?” Oh. Not a ‘stalker’ blog, then. Irene knew how to play with people’s feelings, that was for sure.

If the sergeant hadn’t meant to kill him, John would have pitied her. Between Irene and his screeching lover being caught, the other cop seemed to have forgotten John…not that he could be blamed too much. “Nothing happened, light of my eyes,” he assured. Then, he glared at the apparently unarmed, reckless woman in front of him.     


	33. Enlightening is hard work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am still not owning anything. I promise I’ll let you know if it changes. ;-)

 

John automatically shifted in front of the two women. They wouldn’t be hurt any further – not on his watch, and certainly not because of him.

Irene clicked her tongue, unsatisfied. He wasn’t making her job any easier. Frankly, she had a feeling that the detective who’d summoned them would not accept any excuses if he came back to find his friend injured or – Dyaus forbid – murdered.

“Irene can be overwhelming, I know, but don’t you get distracted. I wonder how you manage to do your job at all,” the doctor mocked the now lone cop. With a wordless cry of rage, ‘Phil’ – as his partner had called him – swung at the blond wildly. Tzk. Getting emotional on the battlefield was what got you killed.

John had been a good soldier because the more hectic the situation became, the calmer and more clearheaded he was. If he was bored, the doctor was likely to be distracted or swept along by his feelings. Lives on the line? The only emotions he allowed himself were these that spurred him on. Panic or mindless rage were neatly boxed in until there was time for them. Bless medical school for helping him develop that.

The former captain dodged the hit and circled around his enemy, trying to draw him away from the two stubborn women. When was Sherlock going to be back? He didn’t want to fight these people too heatedly. The cops would be less likely to hear the sleuth’s and his proposal out, if they felt too humiliated, or if John managed to land one good hit, now that they were separated. He couldn’t keep dancing around him forever, though. As if summoned by his worry, a blog update comforted him. The detective would arrive in five minutes. John could handle the officer for five more minutes.

 Bless Dyaus for being infallible – at least around reliable people. Sherlock arrived on the dot, calling loudly for him. At that, the cop lunged for one last wild attack, winding the doctor. Irene was the one yelling back for the sleuth, who arrived running.

“Don’t get involved, freak!” the policeman hissed venomously. John glared at him, angry at the mistreatment.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Anderson. I am more deeply involved in this than _you_ could ever be. I have to say that I am utterly disappointed in your god, though. You, the divine being keeper of causality? The world would self-destruct in a day. I thought that becoming a candidate required passing at least some sort of _standard_ ,” the consulting detective sneered back, raising a spiteful eyebrow.

Red splotches bloomed on Anderson’s face. “What _the fuck_ is happening, Phil? Get me out!” Donovan shouted before he could reply, making her lover’s head swivel towards her improvised cell.

“I apologise,” the sleuth rumbled, “to your god, that is. He understood that the universe needed at the very least the collective braincells of the both of you not to collapse.”

John giggled. He couldn’t help it. Anderson’s haughty comeback, “Dyaus knows that the power of love is the only sensible rudder for the universe!” didn’t help stop the doctor’s hilarity.

“Not that I expect a psychopath like you to understand it,” the cop concluded. The blond had to restrain himself from boxing the annoying idiot’s ears – or at least trying to, in case his lover decided to protect him even from that. Now was the time to talk things out and offer them an advantageous option. But God they were making it hard.                     

“I’m going to check on Jim. He could have worsened his wound out of sheer boredom,” John said noncommittally. If he was around them while Sherlock explained, his stalker’s blog could risk informing him about their trump card. The doctor was all for having no one else die, if at all possible. Which meant that Jim too would eventually have to be informed of their plan for winning without any bloodshed. But even if the man had apparently shifted back to John’s side of the board, the former soldier would rather keep the one secret they had.

Thinking back on it, perhaps he was locking the stable after that particular horse had already bolted. It was possible that when he’d been informed of the existence of that trick, Moriarty had been, too. In case he hadn’t, though, the less involved the doctor was in the proceedings, the better chances they had. It would be nice if they could spring it on Jim. The man deserved to be wrongfooted himself sometimes.

Anderson growled, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” arms flailing wildly.

“Don’t be stupid Anderson, even without John we’re three against one. We can stop you from going after him,” the detective rumbled, taking a few quick steps forward and physically stepping between the fighters. “Besides, he’s a doctor going to visit a patient, and he has morals – unlike you. John is not going to run away, he’ll just be downstairs. You can chase him later if you still wish to do so. At the moment, there’s something I need to let you know. Being optimistic and assuming you will be able to understand it.”

The officer glared venomously, but apparently the only thing he found necessary to object was, “ _Two_ against three. I’m never alone. We’re one soul and one heart, freak.”

“Right. Donovan needs to be part of this too. Get her out of there and into dad’s study, two doors down, on the right. I’m hoping you spared it, or you’ll have a pissed man to contend with, once he comes back from his holiday.”

The room was untouched, thankfully for the old Mr. Holmes’ sanity. The officers seemed to be shocked enough that they left themselves be manhandled into place. Irene received the comfortable, high-backed chair behind his dad’s desk, and Kate spontaneously grabbed a footstool and dragged it near her lover, sitting on it and half leaning on her.

The sleuth guided the cops to two much less cushioned, and less impressive chairs. They were the ones he and his brother always ended on the rare times dad, kind as he was, called them in for a serious telling off. It always meant that the boys had gone and upset mummy first. Dad could be very protective of her.

Then, with a grin and feeling rather daring and naughty, instead of picking a seat for himself, Sherlock jumped on the desk and sat on it. The literal high ground would not intimidate the two policemen – they were too dumb to perceive nuances and react to them – but it was satisfying. “Now, hear me out,” the sleuth rumbled, “I am very aware of the game you’ve been involved in, and of its rules – or mostly lack thereof. With my help, you don’t have to be Dyaus’ pawns. It’s not die or be crowned. Not if you have _me_ on your side.”

“Ah! I thought you’d pick at least a believeable lie to try and con us, freak!” Donovan hissed, glaring up at him.

“I understand that anyone will instinctively judge others according to what they themselves would do, but try to be polite and hear him out, dearie,” Irene interjected in a mocking purr, petting Kate’s hair all the while.

“How dare you insult my heart!” Anderson growled, jumping to his feet.

“Everyone, put these oh so sensitive feelings aside and try to use the logical side of your brains for five minutes. I can set up a timer if you want,” the detective chided sternly.

“ _You_ would think that feelings can be forgotten. Never had any, did you, freak?” the sergeant taunted, sending him a dirty look. Still, one look from her had Anderson backing down and sitting. “Spout your lies,” she allowed.

“It should be evident even to your smitten selves that you’re not god or goddess material. While seeing your every whim realised might sound appealing, there’s something I doubt you have considered. You’re not evil, I’ll give you this, so I suppose you don’t want to accidentally destroy continents. _Think_ about it. The sheer amount of data a god of causality would have to sift through. Simply wishing a warmer weather on a beach near home could entail worldwide climate changes, making you responsible for the death of hundreds of thousands. Are you ready to think twenty paces ahead about _anything_? Wouldn’t you prefer to be allowed to go on only focusing on your beloved? Besides, you have already found true love. If I have to believe your own statements, you’ve already attained perfect happiness, and shouldn’t wish for anything more,” the consulting detective pointed out, crossing his legs.

“We’d never allow each other to come to harm, much less die,” Anderson countered passionately, but with a slight hesitation between his words. He hadn’t calculated how much work being a god would require, clearly. Moron.

“I’m not asking you to,” Sherlock insisted, with a grin. “You could just drop from the game and retire somewhere… Maybe in Greece, warm weather, blue sea… the perfect romantic getaway, according to romantic movie clichés.”

“Are you saying that you’re more powerful than God?” Anderson bit back, raising an eyebrow.

“He is. apparently Dyaus’ technology, while not following usual parameters, still has a logic – and can be understood, and played with to obtain what he wants,” Irene purred.

“Did he now?” Donovan sneered.

“I know love. Kate is everything to me, even if with my career someone narrow-minded like you wouldn’t believe it. Which is why I took screenshots of my future blog, to let her know what I planned to do. My blog allowed me to manipulate people’s actions, you see. And then I sent them to her. You can find them on my phone – and see that at the moment, unlike what Dyaus would have you believe it was possible, there’s no way to access my blog anymore,” the dominatrix explained, offering her phone to the frowning couple.

“This could be faked,” the sergeant remarked, but her voice was unsure now.

“Donovan, if I wanted to, I’d have swiped your phone from your pocket. I’m going to all this trouble because I need you to agree. Other players might be on your tail already, and you would not yet have received a warning only because they’re playing a longer game, and the blogs are short-sighted. If they went to attack you after I had already taken away your blog, you’d be defenceless. I _can_ drop you from the game. But you need to agree, and take additional measures to protect yourself. I can help you get a new identity. If someone already suspects you, once you disappear they’ll think you’ve simply been taken out by a different player before they could get to you,” the sleuth pointed out coolly.

“Are you saying that you’re looking out for _us_ , freak? Why would you?” Donovan scoffed, clearly incredulous.

“Because John is a good man, and that’s what he would want,” the detective replied simply.

The two lovers shared a look.

“You have a blog on both your phones. Let him touch one. Either he will do what he promised, or your blog will still exist on one phone,” Kate pointed out reasonably.

At that, Anderson threw his phone to the consulting detective with a challenging look. Four minutes later, his side of the future blog had been wiped clean, and the mobile phone given back. A quick check-up, and Donovan handed her own phone, with a hard stare.

“Now, to ensure your safety…” Sherlock started.


	34. Dealing with the aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I obviously do not own a single thing. Have fun!

Jim looked at the doctor with bright eyes. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried, Johnny,” he cooed.

“What about neither?” John quipped, with one of his “I’m annoyed” grins.

“Now you’re not making any sense, love. You chose to come and check how _I_ was faring rather than finishing the players attacking you! If that isn’t a show of caring so deep that I have every right to feel flattered, Johnny, then what would be? Then again, letting someone else take care of your hunters for you… That amounts to putting your very life in their hands. Sherlock might be marginally clever, but I can’t help but be concerned about allowing _him_ to be your knight in shining armour. Have you thought this through?” Moriarty retorted, going from an eyelashes-fluttering flirt to a frown in moments.

“Relax, Jim. I have indeed ‘thought this through’, as you say. Sherlock is a lot more than ‘marginally clever’, even you can’t deny that. If you’d be fine with me putting my life in your hands, as you offered multiple times, I don’t see why you would object to me trusting him,” the doctor replied, mechanically checking his patient over.

Thankfully, the man had not injured himself further – he’d done nothing more than check his phone, then. Bless his obsession for overpowering Jim’s tendency to be skittish. There was fire in the man’s eyes, when he hissed venomously, “You can’t possibly consider me and Sherlock fucking Holmes to be on level pegging!”

Sharply, John growled back, “Of course not. He’s never kidnapped me. That’s why I cannot trust you enough to free you.”

Jim honest-to-God pouted at that. “I didn’t think that you’d be a man to hold a grudge, Johnny,” he groused.

The doctor’s eyebrow shot up in incredulity at the gall of the man. He should just forgive and forget, shouldn’t he? Never mind that he’d been chained like an animal and terrified at being helpless in a madman’s grasp. He didn’t doubt that if the consulting detective hadn’t saved him when he did, he would ultimately have been raped by his stalker.

The very same sleuth now strode in, announcing, “Everything is solved. You don’t have to worry about them anymore, John. I swear, if you had to be in their presence another ten minutes, you would have lost half your brain cells. You can’t afford that.” The man huffed in open disgust.

“Instead you are so arrogant as to think you can, aren't you?” Jim retorted spitefully, before the blond could reply.

“I don’t save lives every day, so yes, if someone has to see their IQ halved, best it be me. Or you, actually. Reminding people to restart their pc shouldn’t require much in the way of brainwork,” Sherlock bit back, glaring.

“It’s not like I didn’t offer!” Moriarty whined, looking at John wide-eyed, clearly begging him to take a side in their bickering.

“Now, now, girls,” the doctor stated, trying his best to be placating but too annoyed not to let it show, “there’s no need to fight.” Seriously, how did he got stuck between two bona-fide geniuses who were petulant like the worst toddlers? He allowed himself a deep breath, trying not to lose his patience, and added, “Thank you so much, Sherlock. I am truly shocked that they were still in the game, though. If I were a colleague and had to spend any length of time with them, even being entirely unaware of Dyaus’ existence, I’d be likely to bash their heads in every day… and I would not be able to resist such a temptation for very long at all.”

Jim looked at him admiringly. He clearly liked the mental image.

“Anytime,” the sleuth replied, shrugging, “though _please_ let’s try not to do this too often.”

“If you want to cease being involved in this game, you are more than welcome to, truly,” the bound man interjected, spiteful. “The good thing is that we have a time limit. The bad thing is… that we have a time limit, so players will necessarily rush to attack. Possibly every day. If it is too much for you, slán a fhágáil ag…”. Afterwards, he turned to John and mouthed something.

The doctor would have sworn it was something like, “Ní.” Damn him. He’d have to hit Google translate later. 

Whether it was to belie or reinforce his words, Jim shrugged as much as his wound and ties allowed him to.

“Oh, it is not the danger I object to,” the detective pointed out, with a toothy grin, “that can be _fun_. It’s the level of idiocy I find distasteful. But we’ve already had evidence that not all players are so unbearably dim, thank God.”

“Thank Dyaus,” Moriarty corrected immediately.

“If your God does indeed keep out of the game, currying favours in these minute ways should be useless. Unless you know that the opposite is true,” the consulting detective remarked, eyes tightening at him.

“Oh, I believe he’s too busy to intervene in our little playing. Besides, influencing it would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it? I thought you understood boredom,” Jim defended his deity.

“I’m sure he does, and everyone here appreciates Dyaus very much. Though, if he’d give people a choice about entering that headhunt of his, I’d like him much better,” John opined. Not another squabble. It was too soon.

Moriarty turned to him with an incongruous smouldering look. “Oh, Johnny, love, you know what they say. Anyone who would purposefully seek out absolute power is someone in whose hands power should never, ever be allowed to fall,” he stated.

“It makes me rather uncomfortable to be forced to do so, but I feel like I have to agree with him,” the sleuth concurred, looking bashful.

“Maybe. If this is his point, though, I’m still wondering what the requirements to be selected are. You know, what with him picking serial killers and snipers and only He knows what else,” the blond huffed, rolling his eyes.

“No, no, Johnny, you’ve got it backwards. The job is _not_ about being a bleeding heart ready to save everyone. The job is about doing whatever is needed for the universe to go on,” Jim chided, leaning towards him.

“And how do you know so much about the job, mmmm?” the consulting detective asked, taking a step forward at the same time John took a step back.

“ _Logic,_ ” Moriarty bit back, glaring at him. “I mean, look at the game. We are supposed to do whatever it takes to survive. Kill people, men and women alike. Hunt down people, bait and trick them. It seems like training to get rid of any pesky moral hang-ups we might have.”

“I honestly wonder if some of us have any hang-ups at all. And I’m not sure if I should feel offended by being deemed suitable, at this point,” John growled, frustrated with the entirety of his situation. What would he have done without Sherlock’s hacks? Was Jim maybe wrong? Were they supposed to figure the alternate solution by themselves? Or was Dyaus really a bored, all-powerful psychopath?

“No,” the other two men chorused with one voice.

“That was the only sensible choice your god has ever made, John,” Sherlock rumbled.

“I’d certainly like it if you let me worship you, Johnny,” Jim purred, looking at him from under suddenly lowered eyelashes.

“Yeah, well… you’ve already proven what you mean by that, and I’m not into it, Jim,” the doctor groused. When would the man leave off with the flirting?

“Both the company you keep and this,” the prisoner replied, thrusting his bound wrists forward, “belie that, Johnny. You don’t have to keep appearances, you know. I’ll love you anyway.”

John sighed deeply. “What am I supposed to do with you, Jim?”

“Oh, I have a few suggestions,” the IT technician grinned, positively leering at him.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. But you baffle me. I never know if you’ll save my life or do your level best to make me wish I was dead,” the blond retorted, spreading his arms in defeat.

Jim gasped loudly and dramatically, shoving his bound arms towards his heart. At the same time, the detective took almost unconsciously another step, putting himself physically between the two men. Moriarty glowered at the consulting detective.

“I hate to keep you like this, Jim. You’re my patient, and you just took a hit for me, for crying out loud, and holding you – no, holding anyone prisoner is really not in my character, no matter what you think. But after what you’ve done, I can’t be your friend. I can never trust you anymore, Jim. Dyaus knows – hell, no, not even him, you scramble all the blogs – what goes through your head at any given time. I cannot risk inviting you for tea, and you slipping me a drug and me waking up to find myself back in your basement,” the doctor admitted, allowing himself a tiny shudder at the end.

“What if you wake up tied up in my bedroom next time?” Moriarty offered, raising an eyebrow.

“Jim. Not. On. How many times do I have to tell you that I. Am. _Not_. Gay?”  John growled, frustrated beyond belief.

“Is that why you’re hiding behind your new boyfriend?” Jim spit out bitterly.

John went very red, then very pale. The sleuth moved swiftly to the side before his friend could shove him away. “We’re NOT boyfriends!” the blond yelled.

“Honestly, Johnny, there’s no need to yell. I know everything you do, remember?” his stalker replied, smirking. If he aimed to lead the doctor to have a stroke, it was working. “It doesn’t mean I can read your heart – and that’s what worries me, love. You might not have bedded him yet, or even gone on a traditional date. But this _does_ qualify as having a jolly good time, and you do object a bit _too_ eagerly for someone truly uninterested.”   

“We are not discussing this. Not once again. For one, there’s nothing to discuss, as you acknowledged. and for another, I don’t think I have time to date nowadays. Not when every outing could be interrupted by a sniper – that one is still at large – or another murderous madman. Given that, you don’t have to be jealous, Jim, not at all. And I need a promise from you now,” John uttered resolutely.

“Anything for you,” Jim agreed immediately, batting his eyelashes like an old-fashioned romance heroine.

“Stay the fuck away from me. I need to know that you will respect my boundaries. if I need your help, I will be the one texting. And of course, I don’t want you dead – if you are the one being attacked, let me know and I’ll be over as soon as I can rush. If you abuse it, you’ll end up like the boy who cried wolf, mind. Do this for me, and I’ll let you go free right now,” the doctor declared earnestly.

“If I do that, you’ll regret it,” Jim warned ominously, eyes suddenly darkening.

“I’ll live with the consequences of my actions. I always did,” John assured, crossing his arms.

“Fine then. I promise. I’ll be waiting for a text, Johnny boy,” Moriarty agreed, pouting.

“And off you go,” the doctor said, finally freeing the bound man. “I’ll text you to schedule your check up.”

The technician grinned madly. “Yeah?”

“I’m still a doctor. And wounds acquired during the game are best dealt by someone who knows what’s going on, don’t you think? What if a random GP insists that you report the attack?” John replied simply.

“True,” Moriarty agreed, nodding vigorously.

“I’ll expect you to follow doctor’s orders and not do anything that might worsen your situation to ensure more appointments,” John warned sternly.

“I wouldn’t dare, Johnny,” Jim assured, drawing twin snorts of incredulity by the other men.

He sauntered away, and when he finally disappeared out of the front door, John sighed deeply. “I’m always scared of what he might do,” the doctor confessed.

“I won’t let him hurt you, John. Not anymore,” Sherlock vowed earnestly. He’d kept out of the conversation after Moriarty’s teasing, but surely now that the man was gone his friend would not be annoyed by his fondness, would he?

Unable to decide how to react to such a heartfelt declaration properly, the blond ignored it altogether. “Now, off to see Irene and Kate,” he announced, trying to sound chipper rather than physically and emotionally exhausted.

“No need. With her profession, they know a long list of discreet doctors who wouldn’t dream of reporting anything. They were tempted to stay and help you deal with Jim, but I convinced them that you’d appreciate it more if they helped Donovan and Anderson settle down, since they had experience in the matter,” the detective explained, pacing through the hall and automatically straightening things.

“You thought of everything, did you?” John quipped, smiling admiringly. “Though I still think I owe them.”

“They thought they were paying you back – for not killing Irene when you had the chance. If you keep helping them, they might not appreciate it as much as you’d wish,” the sleuth mentioned, shrugging.

“Then what now? Besides me helping you get the house back to scratch,” the doctor asked.

“I suppose we’ll have to inform Lestrade that his agents have…disappeared,” Sherlock stated.

“Oh.” John, who’d been following him, went suddenly still, frowning. “True.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. About Jim’s bout of Irish – yes, I got that out of Google translate, and I still tried to be punnish with it, so I might have failed tremendously. “Slán a fhágáil ag” is supposed to mean ‘goodbye’ but literally it should be more along the lines of ‘Leave safe(ly)’…and Jim’s conclusion, “Ní,” should mean, “Not.” Just in case you were wondering.


	35. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – though I am considering claiming BBC Sherlock due to the patent unworthiness of the legal owners. Not that I would be good enough, but maybe we can sue and get it out of their hands and to a committee of talented fanfiction writers? 
> 
> A.N. The Mirai Nikki chapter I’m drawing from here is the one who persuaded me it would be a perfect Sherlock fusion. I’ve changed both moment in the plot and some details, but...you’ll see. :-)

Sherlock had never thought he would have the dubious pleasure of meeting Dyaus. They were rivals, of a sort. The God had concocted the murderous game he’d been irresistibly pulled towards. It was his job to contain the damage. To...not stop it from happening, of course, the world couldn’t be allowed to end, but to strip the sadistic deity of his enjoyment if he could (or hers – or hirs – who knew which gender it was).

Still, the sleuth wasn’t one of the chosen few, and he had believed that he would be allowed to accomplish his little sabotages on the side without being bothered. He should have known that was a naive hope.

Suddenly, the consulting detective found himself inside the temple John had described to him more than once, and he wondered mildly if he’d fallen asleep – he really shouldn’t have yet – or perhaps passed out, and if John was angry at him for doing so. If his friend was scared. He hadn’t meant to, but how did one tell God to piss off and let him wake up and get home, busy, thank you very much?

Moreover, it was a chance to investigate further – interrogate the divinity over doubts that had nagged at his brain for a long time. True, Dyaus could choose not to answer, but if he didn’t take his chance he would regret it later.

“You’re thinking too loud,” the God teased. His mask was impassive, but Sherlock would have bet he (if his voice was not distorted by the headgear) was smirking behind it.

“Not a problem you have too often, I’d wager,” he quipped back, refusing to be made to feel awkward.

“More often than you’d think,” Dyaus retorted, chuckling. “Penny for your last thought?”

The detective refused to be cowed by the ominous wording. “Can a god resurrect people?” he asked, steely eyed. John loathed the senseless killing going on. He would love to be able to save everyone, once he obtained the power he deserved. Besides, the sleuth didn’t put it past Dyaus to take his favorite contestants and enter them back into the game, resurrecting them again and again.

“To recreate a body is but a moment’s thought,” the God replied, waving away his concerns. “But the soul... Ah, that is another matter altogether. Once _that_ ’s moved on, not even I can get it back. Of course, one has options. Go back in time and stop the death from happening in the first place. That splits the timelines, and there’s still a world where that person is dead, with whatever consequences it would entail. If this happens during the game, eventually the new timeline would need to go through a new god selection of its own. But it is a respite. The other choice, once one obtains godhood, is to recreate the world from scratch. You can’t replicate it exactly – that’s not how it works. It has to be a _new_ world, after all. But it can – if you have talent and will – be close enough that the new self of the person you care for has still all you loved them for. Not that you would know what that means.”

Sherlock glared at him. Dyaus might be a god, but clearly his decadence meant he’d lost omniscience, if he’d ever had it. The consulting detective didn’t object vocally, though – not at the moment. Feelings were weaknesses, and he didn’t intend to show Dyaus any.

“With your last curiosity eased, you can go happily. I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock Holmes. You were supposed to last longer. But you’re too obnoxious to be allowed to continue,” the deity declared, sounding almost wounded.

“Well, that seems to be a common feeling,” the sleuth snorted. “But disappointed? I didn’t know there were expectations set between us. These things should be made clear in advance, don’t you think so?”

“I don’t see why. I mean, if you had a self, or an identity, then possibly. But do you discuss expectations with your phone?” Dyaus mocked cruelly. At Sherlock’s bewildered expression – there was no way to school _that_ out of his face _–_ he snickered. “No didn’t think so.”

The sleuth had recovered enough to glare and protest vehemently, “No self? Me? I’ve been accused many times of having an overblown ego, if anything. Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Not really. Just statement of fact. You’re not a human being. You must have suspected that. After all, everyone realised there was something wrong with you,” the god replied, mysteriously managing to sound scathing and airy at the same time.

“Are you...serious?” Sherlock queried, hating how hesitant he was. It couldn’t be. He was just as human as anyone else. Hell, he was better and brighter than anyone else. Not even he believed this entirely, but ‘Everyone else is an idiot’ was the only reaction to the countless ‘freaks’ he received that kept him somehow whole. Could Dyaus – could all the disparaging people in his life have been right all along? No, no they weren’t. John liked him. That surely was evidence enough.

“Obviously,” the deity retorted. “You’ve never been like every other man, have you? Not since you’ve been born. You see things. _Notice_ them. More and deeper than any normal human being. Of course you do. You were programmed to. You’re a recording device with the highest resolution I could create. And still you came out defective. I was not at my best, I guess. Oh well.” He shrugged.

“Recording what?” the detective asked, frowning. He had his suspicions, of course. But he was stalling for time. Dyaus wanted to kill him (dismantle him? Break him? Whatever was the proper word) and, reckless as he’d always been, Sherlock suddenly found out he was afraid. He wasn’t ready. He wanted more time with John. Much more.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Dyaus chided sternly. “Obviously you were supposed to record the game. Did you really think it was by chance that all your cases lately brought you to one of the contestants for my position? A few coincidences too many for it to be believable, don’t you think?

The sleuth looked properly chastened at that. He should have known better, true. But it was a bitter pill to swallow, to have been a pawn all along –even more so that any of the players.

“You’re a fake, Sherlock. Always have been. Not a human. Not even strictly living, if you ask me. And deep down you knew. Why would you use words like delete and hard-drive otherwise? No man does, after all. Well, it is time to download your files back into the Akashic records,” the god announced, a smirk evident in his voice if not on his features.

The consulting detective wanted to object. To scream. He hadn’t known. He’d never considered himself less than human. Trying to make him complicit in his own dehumanization was too unfair. Besides, even if he’d felt like that, he would have been wrong. Even this cruel, arrogant divinity had to be wrong. Because John considered him a friend. John wouldn’t befriend a _thing_. That was way too pathetic, and the doctor was better than that. Instead, he just inquired, “Which records?” Keep Dyaus talking.

“The world’s...well, _this_ world’s. If there’s one thing I’m bound to do, as god, is to archive everything. For the next one, you see. You don’t want to repeat your predecessors’ errors. At the very least, you want to make your own. You have no idea the sort of awful messes the firsts of us got into, not having much in the way of guidance. Apocalypses that would scar you for life...if yours wasn’t about to be snuffed out anyway,” the divinity explained, ending with a spine-chilling chuckle.

He snapped his fingers, and Sherlock started to disappear slowly, from his feet up, body dissolving into a glittery dust irresistibly attracted by a suddenly appeared, too bright spinning wheel. “You can’t!” the sleuth screamed, in pain and terror.

Dyaus only laughed louder. “I think you’ll find out I can, my broken little tool,” he retorted.

“I’m more than a tool. More than a toy. More than a fake, or a bad imitation of a man. I’m a person, and you’ll treat me as such,” the detective growled between gritted teeth.

“Will I?” the god echoed, mocking, doubtful. “Who knows. Maybe I will. But you have to prove to me that you are indeed a human being. I believe you’ll find that’s not as easy as you think, my obnoxious pawn.”

“My work – that was more than just keeping track of your game. I helped put regular, human criminals behind bars. I worked with Lestrade to save people. Surely, if Lestrade is a proper man, I am one too?” the consulting detective hissed.

“That? Your precious work was a test run, Sherlock. Have you never tested a recording device before the programme you really wanted to record? You were supposed to observe – but could you really? I loaned you to Lestrade, and you worked like a charm. Good for me,” Dyaus retorted.

Tragically, it made sense. But he was human, wasn’t he? He refused to believe he wasn’t. How could he prove it? What did people _do_? Oh. Of course. Could he say it? This was a dream, right? Or its equivalent. John wouldn’t hear him. It was safe to say it. Part of him didn’t want to let anyone in the secret, not until he’d confessed it properly. But he would have no chance to, not unless he persuaded Dyaus. He’d already disappeared up to his knees.

Sherlock looked down, towards his own quickly-spreading inexistence. True as it was, he didn’t have the heart to gaze at the impassive god while he pronounced the words that obsessed him for weeks now. “I... I am in love with John Watson,” he breathed, soft but clearly.

Whatever reaction he expected, it was not a booming laugh, or the god hitting his leg in uncontrollable hilarity. “You...you think your feelings are your own? Honestly. Sherlock?” the deity queried between guffaws.

Finally, the detective glared up. It wasn’t a laughable idea. He _did_ have feelings. Machines didn’t. It had to count. “I do,” he said, and this time his voice was strong.

“My poor little _thing._ That’s a bug. _I_ love John Watson. When putting you together, a bit of my feelings leaked in. That’s the risk when you get to work once you’re already almost burned out. I thought it wouldn’t matter. That it would make you focus the most on the one I was interested in. My bad. These feelings ruining you are the main reason I have to substitute you now,” Dyaus declared, waving his hands towards the sleuth, dispersing his shining particles quicker.

Sherlock hunched on himself, burying his hands in his pockets, unwilling to show how they trembled. To his surprise, his right hand encountered his mobile phone inside. Why did that happen? He thought the physical world did not have a place here. Was it maybe because he was tied to Dyaus, the extra care and powers put into him allowing him a smidge of the god’s powers to use at his own pleasure?

In truth, the explanation didn’t matter. He had to act – quickly. And here might be the best possible place to do what he wanted to. The consulting detective’s shaky fingers flew on the keys, almost feverish. Before he disappeared, if he could manage... yep. “I have a blog now,” he declared, glaring at the god. Getting hooked to the ‘main server’ wasn’t that hard. True, the opposite of what he did usually...but he wasn’t an idiot. “You wanted to use me as an observer. I’m not going to be uninvolved anymore. I’m going to play the game. Create the world I want. Not just look on anymore.” Free will. Certainly this showed it? And it was one of the requirements for a human, wasn’t it?

A tense moment, and the god started slowly clapping. “You surprised me, Sherlock Holmes,” he acknowledged, admiring. “Nobody usually does. I’ll have to give you that – contestants are not for _me_ to get rid of.” A hand wave in the opposite direction as earlier, and the sleuth’s body started to form itself again. “You might still die, though,”Dyaus warned. “That’s rather the point of the game.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock replied, shrugging. The world was ending. There was still a chance that John would have to recreate it from its foundation, and that he – like everyone else – would be destroyed and reborn. Simply being murdered in comparison with that sounded almost dull. And if John unmade and remade him – that was fine. But at least now he would have agency, for as little as this world still held on.

The detective’s eyes fluttered open (when had he closed them?) and he peered into John’s anxious, impossibly blue ones.

“What the fuck happened, Sherlock? You passed out, and then you started... you started...” His friend didn’t seem to find a word for it, lips trembling.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Sherlock apologised, voice unexpectedly croaky. “I had an unexpected meeting with your God, and to be completely honest, I don’t like him that much.”

John giggled weakly. “To be completely honest back...neither do I.”                              


	36. Admitting things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing

 

“Are you _sure_ you’re fine?” John queried, hands going automatically to the recently restored legs, to touch and grip and assess.

Sherlock was tempted to do the same, incredulous as he was that they’d been destroyed and remade – if partially so – at a nod. It certainly put the god’s power in perspective. If the sleuth had always secretly thought it was not so great, because he himself could mess with the blogs (and didn’t that have a depressing explanation now?), this latest trauma made it feel more godly indeed.

He just nodded, but didn’t protest John’s touch – certainly not. (If only these hands would slip upwards…no, stop right now, he didn’t need this kind of thoughts now, John would be disgusted by him.)

“What did you do to piss off Dyaus so much, anyway?” the doctor asked, fond and just a tiny bit exasperated – as if he wanted to scold the detective for provoking the deity. Why was he assuming it was Sherlock’s fault, at that? It wasn’t fair.

“I didn’t. I did nothing at all except for being born,” he replied, pouting.

“Really? I knew he was a bit insane – the sheer fact He has been a legit god until now is worrying, honestly, wonder how the world managed to make sense despite him being in charge. But he always has some flimsy sort of excuse, and being born….well, that seems particularly stupid,” the doctor huffed, stopping examining his legs keenly but not touching them.

The sleuth didn’t want to admit the truth, but at the same time he yearned for reassurance. “Am I human?” he queried, looking intently at his friend. If John lied, he needed to notice it.

“Of course you are! You’re a madman, true. But you’re the most human human being I’ve ever met. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Even a dying fucking god,” John stated earnestly, almost angrily – but clearly not at him.

“Even if Dyaus had been rather more involved in my birth than usual, and my talent for observation was actually a gift of his?” Sherlock asked, unsure. He’d wanted to be a man. Fought to be a man against Dyaus’ plans. Still, he needed John’s confirmation. He supposed he needed the seal of approval from the one God he would ever recognise.

“Sure,” John said vehemently, squeezing his calves. “I mean, not to boast but I have a rather good aim. If this ended up being Dyaus’ gift, or that he’d bothered to have a hand in my birth, I would certainly not doubt my own humanity, and neither should you.”

Sherlock bit back a moan. This was…not good. John was just trying to be comforting. “Even if he took pains to give you your aim because he needed people killed?” he gritted out.

John chuckled. “Well, that would make him a psycho – and I’m not so sure we aren’t right in suspecting that, just look at the whole game – but it certainly would not dehumanise _me_. Know what, I’m tempted to go get him and beat him up for what he said to you. What do you think? Is he weakened enough I could do that?”

The sleuth’s heart felt about to burst. His friend was planning a blasphemous rebellion for his sake. Nobody had bothered to defend him before, much less against a near all-powerful being. At the same time, fear froze him. Dyaus might not want to interfere with players, but he was clearly whimsical. If he took offense at John’s bold words and decided to smite the heretic, after all, the consulting detective would have regretted not letting himself be destroyed even after his own inevitably swift death. “I wouldn’t suggest it,” he croaked, “You don’t want God angry at you.”

He almost added, “I’m not worth it, after all,” but didn’t. Like him, John was stubborn and loved proving people wrong. The former army captain could have embarked on an all-out war against Dyaus out of principle, to prove his friend worth it (as he didn’t say things he didn’t believe), and that could only have a tragic end… and it would have been all Sherlock’s fault.

“Probably safer, yes,” John agreed, shrugging. “And anyway he is dying all on his own, so giving him a lesson now would probably be overkill. Might be more useful to ensure that whoever will take his place has his head straight.”

“Well, that’s a moot point, since it’s going to be you,” the detective quipped, smiling.

“Still serious about it, are you?” John wondered, finally letting him go…or rather, forcing himself to do so before it became too awkward.

“Of course I am. There’s no way I’m letting another possibly insane god – or goddess – take over. The current one is bad enough,” Sherlock huffed. “Who knows how much damage which could have easily been avoided was allowed because he just didn’t care, or thought it was funny to watch. Not that I don’t sympathise with being bored, but there should be a limit.”

 Unless it was for a case – then, any ethical limit vanished, when faced with the need to stop more crimes from being committed – his experiments were limited to dead things. Being purposefully cruel to live, sensitive and somehow-conscious creatures repelled him, possibly because he’d been too many times in the victim’s shoes. Not that he would ever admit as much aloud. 

The doctor nodded eagerly. “Sure. And whoever replaces Dyaus, I want you to make sure they do respect it,” he declared. “Seriously, Sherlock. Take care of yourself so you can save the world. I’m starting to think you’re getting too involved – that _I_ am getting you too involved. You weren’t supposed to ever be in so much danger,” he sighed, looking down to hide a sudden wave of guilt. 

“Have you heard me at all?” Sherlock growled. “ _You_ didn’t involve me in the game. Dyaus made me to be sure I meddled with it. and whatever action I’ve taken was my choice, very much not me going along with your requests. If  you truly recognise me as a human being, you need to give me the right to be nosy and interfere when I’m unneeded and maybe even undesired.”

“Right, sorry. I can be daft. Just… never undesired, Sherlock. I wish I was able to protect you better. Mine is a dangerous path. But I’d never want you to stay away from me, if not for your sake,” John replied, voice soft.

“I don’t need to be coddled, John,” the detective sniffed, finally righting himself. He couldn’t appear weak, and since John was not going to jump his bones (a man could dream) staying supine was counterproductive.

“Of course you don’t,” his friend agreed promptly. “It doesn’t mean that I don’t want to protect you. I’m afraid I’m built like that.” He chuckled softly. “Then again, can you blame me for not wanting the people I care for hurt? Aren’t you just the same?”

“Not at all,” the sleuth stated coldly.

A disappointed, wounded look painted itself for a second on John’s face, before giving way to a puzzled frown. The consulting detective had protected and saved him time and again, with considerable danger and all around trouble for himself. If it wasn’t done out of affection, what the hell had possessed him? It wasn’t like John had begged for his help and he didn’t find a way to politely refuse. The doctor was pretty sure politeness or hurting his feelings wouldn’t rate very high among his friend’s priorities anyway. They _were_ friends…or weren’t they?

For all that he wasn’t a genius, all these thoughts took John maybe five seconds, during which Sherlock waited patiently for a reply – and observed him carefully. Finally, deciding he’d shown the man enough courtesy, the detective smirked and stated proudly, “Confusing things like emotions have never motivated my actions, John. I revere and follow logic, and any risk I assumed in the protection of another was chosen after a careful calculation of both probabilities of damage and the worth of the people who would die or otherwise suffer.”

Fine, it was a lie. No, not a lie. It really was obvious – logical – to protect your beloved. To your very last breath, if necessary. But downplaying his feelings – and their importance – seemed the safer option. John already had to deal with one stalker. If he was too forward, the doctor would cut all ties with him…and that would be a sensible choice. Commendable, even.

But oh, John was smarter than the sleuth gave him credit for. After Sherlock’s proclaim, the doctor looked at his friend and laughed. Heartily. “I’m not sure if you believe all that tirade or if it is for my benefit,” he remarked, when he got his breath back. “But just in case, I’ve got a newsflash for you, Sherlock. The sheer fact that someone’s life, or happiness…or anything, really, is ‘obviously’ or ‘logically’ worth more than your own, already means that choice is rooted in feelings. Not that I’d object, mind – this is not a critique.”

Oh. Busted. He already knew his friend was smart – John was a doctor after all – but realising that was much smarter than the consulting detective had expected. Then again, not everyone had the difficulties the detective experienced with the emotional side of life. He blushed and shrugged, not knowing quite how to react. “Now, Lestrade,” he announced. “We really should have warned him before, but your god decided to meddle.” Changing subject seemed like a good tactic.     

He took out his phone and started texting, when his friend protested, “I’ll do it, Sherlock. The man deserves at least a call, not just a text. I’m not asking you to call him. Lestrade might actually be spooked if you call him.”

“Fine,” the sleuth agreed with a put upon sigh.

“I was thinking….do I tell him everything? Or do we keep our part in it a secret for the moment?” the doctor queried. It could be instinctive to say it, but what if Lestrade’s calls at work were somehow recorded? Would someone require them to see a shrink?

“He won’t believe I’m able to do what I claim anyway, unless he sees it. You might as well just mention that Donovan and Anderson have disappeared,” the detective replied.

So John did, emphasizing the verb to let Lestrade understand this was business regarding Dyaus’ game, and it would be at the very least unwise to bring along the whole cavalry.

The detective inspector agreed to come as soon as he could, but his voice was clipped, and he cut the call short as soon as he understood the message, not even allowing him to politely say goodbye.

“Either he’s in a mood or he’s really busy,” the doctor huffed. He already had to deal with two very moody geniuses. Couldn’t someone have some manners for a change?

Probably busy, John decided when minutes went on without the inspector appearing yet. Probably the inspector figured out that everything  happened already and he was only supposed to provide an official cover up , so there was no reason to hurry up.

Not that it would have bothered the doctor normally, but after the emotional conversation, someone else’s presence would have been welcomed.  He’d been the one to corner Sherlock about being fond of him, and of course it was patent, and reciprocal, but… To be honest, he might be getting more than fond of the man. The bloody apocalypse wasn’t the time to lie, was it? At least to himself. It would have been new, confusing, and a bit terrifying on its own even without adding the whole world is ending clause, but no pressure, uh? 

“Tea?” he blurted out, when they got tired of trying to bring the house back to a semblance of order (don’t think about how well you both work out as a couple, because your brain is about to derail to parts unknown). Tea was the magic fix it all…and judging from Sherlock’s nod and vague hum, his friend agreed.

They went back to the kitchen, which luckily was one of the less devastated rooms. “Want to know something?” John asked, tongue loosened by the domestic comfort of it all after so much adrenaline.

“Of course,” the detective replied, eyes shining with curiosity “I always do.”

“I enlisted because normal routine bored me out of my skull I wanted an adventure, I guess. To feel alive. And well, war was horrible, but I fit right in. And life made sense, somehow. But then I’ve been pulled out of it and into this game, and yep, I get all the adrenaline I can wish for and then some, but I want this to end. This shouldn’t happen. It’s not like a god selection should be. My karma is…careful what you wish for, I suppose?” John confessed.

Before Sherlock could answer in any way, a sudden shot echoed and a bullet embedded itself in the cabinet behind John. Fuck. Where was Lestrade?     


	37. Misconceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Of course I still don’t own a thing…

 

John dropped out of his chair and took cover behind it, training taking over. Sherlock, instead, was stock still, eyes swivelling to take in as much data as possible, to determine where the shooter was, possibly which calibre his firearm was, and so on.

His reasoning was interrupted by a low growl from his friend. “Down and take cover! Do you _want_ to die?” The former officer just about stopped himself from adding, “soldier,” swimming perilously close to a full-blown flashback.

That cut through the consulting detective’s concentration, and he did slip under the table. Given the position of the windows, it would be hard for a bullet to reach him there unless the gunman was so close as to be visible against the glass. He really needed more survival instinct, he supposed.

“You don’t happen to have a firearm in the veritable armoury you turned this home into, do you?” the doctor asked. He should have brought his gun along. But with police guarding the house, introducing an illegal weapon had seemed like inviting trouble.

“I’m afraid not, sorry. My mummy has always been very firm about what was allowed in the house,” the sleuth mumbled. She wouldn’t believe him when he told her he wasn’t responsible for the one bullet hole, Sherlock already knew. “It doesn’t mean that we don’t have long-range weapons, if we can determine where exactly our enemy is.”

“Yep, but I don’t guarantee my aim with that blowgun you have in the other room, or maybe a longbow – it wouldn’t surprise me if you had one lying about somewhere,” John huffed. If they died, and it was his fault for not wanting to get a police record, he was going to be haunted by guilt beyond the grave, he knew.

“You don’t need to be my knight in shining armour, we’ve been over this,” the detective retorted, wondering why there had not been another shot yet. That meant a careful adversary, wanting to aim, instead of one who would waste bullets and run out of them without hurting anyone. “Besides, Lestrade should arrive any minute. He’s late enough as it is.”

The doctor decided that rushing the inspector a bit would not go amiss. He took out his mobile phone and repressed a sigh of relief when the man answered on his second ring. “There’s someone shooting at us, Lestrade, so if you could kindly hurry the fuck up,” he growled in a low voice.

“You didn’t tell me Anderson and Donovan’s killers were still around!” the officer chided.

“They’re not, this is a new situation, but it seems everyone homed in on us today. Must have the stars against us, or something,” John replied, trying to diffuse his own fear with jokes. For all the weapons in this house, against a gun he felt like a sitting duck without one of his own.

“I’m almost there, John, don’t worry. Just don’t lose it,” Lestrade reassured, before hanging up. Then tense minutes, and then the inspector called back. “I managed to surprise your shooter. I dropped a good hit on the back of his head, and now he’s subdued. No worries, John. Thanks for the warning.”

“Dyaus bless you, Lestrade,” the doctor replied, with a deep sigh, before hanging up and turning to his friend. “Get a cup for the inspector. He definitely deserves one.”

Sherlock slithered out of under the table – and managed to look breathtakingly graceful while doing so. John straightened slowly, feeling a bit rigid. Dash it all, he wasn’t so bad during the war. Since he’d been shot, he felt like a broken toy. It didn’t help that during the game he’d gotten unused to long waits full of danger. The goddamned blog had spoilt him, for all that he didn’t check it often enough.

He’d just flopped back into his chair, when, to his shock (he did receive an update a second before Lestrade’s call, but reading that had seemed useless after the inspector’s assurance), another shot echoed.

This time, rather than standing still, the sleuth swivelled around and upended his friend’s chair, making him fall on his side and saving him from a much better aimed bullet.

“What the fuck?” John swore fervently. “Lestrade can’t have been overpowered! Not with what he said.”

“He has not been. I’m afraid we’ve forgotten the game’s first rule, John. Don’t trust anybody,” the consulting detective stated, dropping once again at his side, with an aborted gesture as if to check if his friend had accidentally got hurt.

“You think he’s the one who’s been shooting at us from the start?” the doctor hissed, frowning.

“Not smart of him, I’ll grant you, but what do you want? Even with him being one of the smartest officers of the entire Scotland Yard, this just means he can see what he’s staring him in the face half of the time. No wonder that his actions are illogical,” Sherlock huffed.

“I’m more worried about him missing me the first time,” John quipped, “for all that a gun is not usually in their pocket, you’d think that our policemen would be trained to handle firearms. Just in case.”

At that, the detective giggled, huddled close to him on the floor. They were insane – all of them, Lestrade included. The world was fucked. When they finally got their breath back, the doctor asked, “What do we do? Can we make him see reason?”

“Doubtful. But I suppose we can try,” the sleuth replied, shrugging. He called Lestrade himself, resolute to give him a piece of his mind. “I had a lot of opinions about you and your life, detective inspector, but I’d never pegged you as a coward,” he hissed, as soon as the officer answered – which, once again, only required a few rings.

“And despite what my officers said, I would have never believed that you would actually become an accomplice to a murder, Sherlock. Am I on speakerphone?” Lestrade retorted sternly.

“No. Do you want to be?” the consulting detective queried, glaring as if the man could see him.

“No, no,” the policeman said hurriedly. “This is better. I have to ask – is John feeding you your lines?”

At that, the sleuth actually snorted.” Does this seem likely to you, Geoff? Or even possible at all?” He rolled his eyes, and John, even unaware of what was going on, giggled softly again.

“This is not the time to joke, Sherlock!” the inspector barked, “I’m trying to figure out if you’ll be spending life in jail or not, do you understand? Fine, nevermind your exact words. What I really need to know is: has John threatened you or anyone you know – your family, Molly, anyone at all – to persuade you to use this house and request police protection, knowing I owed you too much to refuse your plea?”

“You are deeply overestimating John, if you think he would do that,” the sleuth sneered.

“Hey!” the doctor blurted out, not knowing what was being discussed but not liking his friend’s tone. Sherlock just waved away his protests.

“You’re not helping your case, Sherlock,” Lestrade snapped, “did you not know that you were being used to set a trap for my colleagues?”

“Did I know? Lestrade, the idea was mine, and I had a hard time persuading John that it was a good plan. To be fair, I was doing that for the mysterious player that seemed to be able to use people as puppets, but if I had known that Anderson and Donovan were part of Dyaus’ game, I would have pushed even more for it. For God’s sake, you can’t tell me that you honestly believe either of them would have been a desirable divinity,” the consulting detective ranted.

There was a silence on the line, so long that Sherlock suspected the man might have hung up on him. Then, the inspector croaked, “They what?”

“Oh, do keep up Lestrade, you know how I hate when I am forced to repeat myself.” The detective rolled his eyes in annoyance, and John was tempted to giggle again at his friend’s dramatic antics.

“Donovan and Anderson were among Dyaus’ chosen ones?” Lestrade echoed, incredulous.

“I know, I know, I was just as shocked when I discovered that. To your God’s partial justification, they both would not have had to murder each other – they counted as one team only. At least Dyaus realised that each had no more than half a brain functioning, if even that,” the sleuth commiserated.

“I didn’t know, Sherlock. Otherwise I would never have sent them to deal with John. I suppose that there was a reason they were such good cops,” the officer sighed. Before the detective could object to his assessment, he added, “So…they were not, indeed, collateral damage, falling into a trap Watson plotted for me?”

“I’m involved, Lestrade. If you don’t believe that John wouldn’t turn on you slyly – he’s much more likely to challenge you to a duel at dawn, honestly, if he had no other option – believe at least that I would be able to adjust the situation so that there would be no accidental victims,” Sherlock declared haughtily.

The officer should have been annoyed, but instead, he chuckled. “Pretty sure of yourself, are you?”

“When have I done something I didn’t mean to, Lestrade?” Sherlock queried, appalled that the man would dare to laugh at him.

“Do you want the list in alphabetical or chronological order?” the inspector quipped.

“Upsetting dimwits doesn’t count,” the detective remarked, getting up and marching across the room in annoyance.

John shot him an alarmed look – that made him a target once again, and even if the half of the conversation he could overhear didn’t seem threatening, he’d have sworn that the policeman wouldn’t go out of his way to gun him down, either, and he’d been wrong about that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend’s concern, and after a second handed over his phone. “He wants to talk with you.”

“You know what Sherlock said, I assume, but I want you to confirm it: Donovan and Anderson were contestants, just like the both of us?” Lestrade asked without preambles.

“Not sure why you wouldn’t believe him but you would trust me, but yep. I was surprised too, but we had to deal with them somehow,” John confirmed.

There was a deep sigh. “I suppose. And as far as why I would believe you, it’s because I think you’re not a bloody genius who would be able to dupe the whole British police if it suited him. But mostly, I’m still astonished that neither of us recognised the other’s status.”

“I get it, Lestrade. I had much the same situation myself.  My boss was a contestant, too. And she was such a nice, supportive person. I’d never have believed that. Say, what do you think of leaving the gun in the holster and coming in? We can have a nice cup of tea and commiserate together,” John urged.                  

“Did you seriously just invite me for tea after I shot at you?” The inspector sounded rather baffled.

“You didn’t hit me,” the doctor pointed out. “And you did spare your men to protect me, when you should want me dead to begin with. True, they tried to murder me too, but you had no idea they would. I’d say it evens out. If anyone has a right to be angry, it’s Sherlock. You _did_ put a hole in his mum’s kitchen cabinet.  But I think he can be talked into forgiving you.”

John laughed, and Lestrade joined in. “You’re something else, John Watson,” the officer acknowledged. 

“Is that a yes?” the doctor queried cordially.

“I suppose. See you in a mo,” the inspector agreed.

A few seconds, and there was a knock at the door. Sherlock opened immediately, one hand stretched. “Gun, please. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Lestrade. Call it insurance. Besides, you’re perfectly capable of fighting without it. Perhaps even better,” he requested politely.

“Glad that you realise that,” Lestrade retorted, surrendering his weapon.

“I’ve never wanted you dead, Geoff. As much as it pains me to admit it, without you I wouldn’t get my most interesting cases.” The consulting detective visibly winced at being forced to confess that.

“Well, I’m flattered that I have some uses,” the inspector replied, with a smirk. He refrained from rolling his eyes or chiding the man about the wrong name. It would be entirely pointless, after all.    

“Come in, Lestrade, we have tea, though I’m not sure you deserve any biscuits,” called John from the kitchen.

Lestrade looked actually apologetic. “Sorry, John. I worked for almost a decade with Donovan and Anderson. As annoying as they are…well, they grew on me.”

“What, like a fungus?” Sherlock interjected, “That might actually be a good definition for the both of them.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded sternly. Just one word, but it was enough to make the sleuth shut up abruptly, and just a hint of a pout started forming. Clearly the man didn’t see anything wrong with what he would define just stating facts. “Sorry for him,” John mumbled, handing over a steaming cup of tea.

“I haven’t lost it with him this long. I’m not going to now, no matter how tempted I am. Besides, I’m the one needing to offer my deepest apologies at the moment. I assumed that you had organised a nefarious plot in order to take me out, and not stopped when I didn’t come. I’m a cop. I should know better than to do that,” Lestrade said, before taking a slow sip.

“Yes, you should,” Sherlock hissed, glaring at him.

“At least nobody got hurt,” the doctor placated, “You might not believe it, but I really like you, Lestrade. I wouldn’t go out of my way to murder you, even if I didn’t have an alternative. I’d probably let any other contestant take you out. Well, at least I hope they would manage to.” He smiled.

“You have an alternative?! What do you mean? Did you talk with Dyaus and manage to extract some extra conditions from him?”

“Not exactly,” John admitted, “actually, I think we pissed Dyaus off a fair bit.”      


	38. Lestrade’s  nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a single thing.

 

“It would have been a damn pity if you'd actually managed to murder us, since we found a way to keep contestants alive and still get out of Dyaus’ mad game,” John announced.

At that, Lestrade choked on his tea and started coughing violently. “No? Seriously?” he asked, when he regained his breath. “I mean, sure, you did say alternative, but…alive and safe? Can you really?”

Sherlock glared at him. “If we couldn’t, why would we even bother _not_ killing every contestant on sight? You know me Lestrade, I’m efficient if nothing else,” he snapped.

The inspector glared back. “Well then, if you can, why would you assassinate Donovan and Anderson?” he accused, incensed now.

“Who said we did?” John countered, grinning. “In case you had realised they were targets, I didn’t want you to go after them before I had an occasion to talk to you and explain that you didn’t have to play Dyaus’ game. It seemed common courtesy towards them, you know. After all, right now they don’t have their blogs for protection. I’d feel guilty otherwise.”

“Can I be honest? The more you talk, the more it sounds like you’re both taking the piss,” Lestrade huffed, crossing his arms.

“Besides the fact that neither of us is a prankster, so this is improbable to begin with, why would we keep up such a deception? I mean, imagine we poisoned you with that tea. Do you think we would have no other way to keep you from realising it and looking for an antidote than with inane chatter?” the sleuth retorted, rolling his eyes.

“Sherlock,” the doctor interjected sternly, “Bit not good, that.”

“What? Acknowledging that, as a doctor, you have the knowledge and means to poison anyone you want, and discussing the matter like logical adults? Why would it be wrong? I’m assuming he has enough sense to consider the matter without turning into a headless chicken,” the detective objected, frowning.

“Charming as always, Sherlock,” Lestrade remarked, chuckling. “Don’t worry, John, With anyone else, I’d be spooked. But his idea of light banter has involved the easiest and most efficient ways for my demise since well before Dyaus started his game. It didn’t take me long to understand that this was his rather unique way to warn me about my weaknesses – to look out for me, as it were. Donovan and Anderson, however, didn’t take well to our friend’s conversation. They pegged him immediately as a serial killer. Ridiculous, of course. Any serial killer worth his salt wouldn’t share his plans with the police in advance.”

“I feel insulted,” Sherlock stated, turning his back on them, “by your insinuation that I would care for you and try to ensure your safety. My conversation has always been a purely academical exercise.

“Sure it was…you big softie,” John teased kindly.

The consulting detective turned to glare at him.

“Honestly, the fact that you want people to be safe isn’t some sort of shameful character flaw. I’d like to meet whoever put that idea in your brilliant brain and have words with them,” the doctor added. His left hand was instinctively curling, betraying that these words would certainly be underlined by some very physical reactions.

An unusual warmth filled Sherlock’s insides. Why would John even feel so strongly about what he’d been taught? He squashed it ruthlessly, though, and declared, “Never mind that, we’re not here to discuss my feelings – or lack of them. What matters now is: what can I do for you, Lestrade? It’s the same relationship we’ve ever had, so let’s focus on that, please.” He cut the air nervously with his hands.

“As I said, I can disconnect your phone from the blog. Or rather, I could do that if you were a secondary contestant, loaning another’s powers. As it is, I’ll have to disconnect the blog from you. That way, when the phone is destroyed – and it will have to be, for you to leave the game, so you might want to copy your address book first – it will not drag you into its falling into one of Dyaus’ black holes. Like that, you’ll be officially out of the game. Not a god, but not a designated prey, either. And obviously, without your future predicting powers. But I believe that you don’t need them to be a decent cop,” he added.

Lestrade mock curtsied. “That is high praise indeed, coming from you! I’m flattered,” he acknowledged, grinning.

“Not that you’ll have that problem, because – for your safety, you understand – it would be better if you left. It’s what we insisted on for Anderson and Donovan, in case someone had pinned them as contestants already and just hadn’t made a move detectable by the blog yet. People who remained alive this long should be the ones more inclined to careful planning – likely for longer than a blog can track – and getting murdered when you’re already out of the game, well, that’d be a bummer,” John remarked, shrugging.

“That’s where you’re wrong, John,” the sleuth interjected, “Lestrade may leave the Met, he may relocate to the antipodes, but he’ll always be a cop. Which is not true for Anderson and Donovan, or at least I hope so for the universe’ s betterment.”

“So they’re…what? Off to a better life?” the inspector wondered, frowning in puzzlement.

“Yep,” John confirmed, popping the p. “I guessed you’d want to talk with them before putting your phone in Sherlock’s very capable hands. We can assure you all we want, but it’s still your life on the line. Their phones have disappeared, though, so…what can we do?”

“I believe they should still be with Kate and Irene. I expect that they’ll need a number of instructions on how to start a new life beforehand. I’m still shocked that they do not need someone constantly holding their hands. I can give you Kate’s number, Lestrade, and she’ll hand the call over to them,” the detective pointed out.

“Of course, this Kate might be an accomplice of yours and you might have recorded my men while they were here,” Lestrade retorted, without heat.

Before John could deny it in earnest, Sherlock nodded sharply. “True, of course. Which is why I suggest you both ask them something only your colleagues would know, and keep the conversation as random and detailed as you can. Nothing I could fake with a couple of recorded yes or no, or that I would think to force them to say even if I’d captured them and fed them lines before their murder,” he suggested then.

“I hope you won’t start criticising my conversation now… like, ‘That isn’t original enough,’ you know,” Lestrade huffed, with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

“Of course not. Trying to steer your words any which way would be counterproductive and only validate your suspicions,” the consulting detective replied, perfectly serious.

“Good to know. Call that friend of yours that’s with my team, then,” the officer urged, when the backup of his address book to the pc Sherlock offered for his needs was finally complete.  

Sherlock did, but Kate wasn’t very quick to answer, and when she did, she was slightly out of breath. “Don’t tell me you have another emergency, ’Lock!” she whined.

“Not as such. But if you could just hand your phone over to Donovan or Anderson for a moment, I’d be most grateful. You could get back to your fun, and I swear I won’t bother you ever again,” the sleuth promised.

“I don’t think that they’ll like it if you interrupt them. Especially because they don’t seem to be fond of you, for all they owe you, you know?” she retorted, annoyed.

“Oh, I know. But it isn’t for me. I have someone here who really needs to hear from them, and that they won’t mind too much talking to. I expect at least training to kick in, and if my acquaintance can have this chat, it might spare me having to fight the phone out of his possession,” Sherlock explained, instinctively shrugging, even if she couldn’t see him.

“The things I do for you, pretty boy,” Kate sighed. “If you hadn’t saved Irene, I would have ignored this call very happily.”

“Yes, well, the sooner you put them on the phone, the sooner you can get back to her. Win win, I’d say,” the consulting detective snapped, handing the phone over to Lestrade.

A few minutes, and the inspector heard a woman huff, “I told you, ’Lock, they don’t want to talk to anyone!”

“Tell them it’s Greg Lestrade on the line, please,” he remarked calmly.

“Wow, that was…” the DI heard, but since he never got the end of that sentence, Donovan promising she could explain, Sir, truly, he assumed the last word would have been ‘quick’.

“Relax, Sally, I’m not going to report you, if that’s what you’re worried about. though I’m a bit disappointed that you’d ditch me like this. We’re overworked as it is,” Lestrade sighed, sagging on his chair.

“We’re sorry, but the freak was very convincing, sir. He thought that we might attract…” Donovan started to justify herself, an edge of panic in her voice, and the usual blame for Sherlock.

“Contestants,” the inspector cut in, impatient. “Look, I do know about Dyaus, and you’ve never been very good at lying or coming up with an excuse on the spot.”

“You know?” she breathed, sounding vaguely horrified.

“I play myself, actually. None of us is very good at deducing, are we? I’d never suspected you, and you both clearly hadn’t, either – luckily for me,” Lestrade replied, self-deprecatingly.

“I suppose that’s why we have the Freak in the first place,” Sally groaned. “But well, before you start tracing this call, there’s something you should really know, sir. We’re not playing anymore.”

“Fuck me sideways, so that’s true!” the DI swore fervently.

“Greg?” she blurted out, repressing a laugh. Hard to be respectful when the man was like that.

“Holmes can actually get you out of the game without dying, really, Sally?” he asked. His sergeant wouldn’t deceive him. Teaming with Sherlock to take him down? The reverse would happen first (or, well, to take John down, he supposed.)

“I thought he was going to murder me, but yes, as much as I’m annoyed at his superpowers, it’s true,” Donovan confirmed. A beat of silence, then she added, “Not that I’d have blamed him entirely if he’d tried to kill us.”

“And Anderson is with you?” Lestrade queried, choosing to ignore her admission.

“Of course he is. I’ll put him on the phone, he’s been eager to speak with you from the start,” Sally replied.

“I don’t care how good the Freak is, make him follow proper procedure on crime scenes!” her lover urged, voice shrill, as soon as he got on the phone.

“I think you’re mistaken, Philip. I’m not god yet…and I’m not even sure Dyaus himself would be able to, honestly,” the DI quipped. Sherlock smiled smugly at that, and even John couldn’t help a silent but theatrical facepalm. Lestrade ignored their antics, letting his thoughts wander. “Besides, I’m not very interested in being God, to begin with. It really makes you wonder what Dyaus was thinking of when he picked us. I still object to being murdered, though, so a couple questions, if you please,” he continued. 

“Uh…sure, sir. Fire away,” Anderson agreed.

“What mess did you get in, first day on the job?” the inspector asked good-naturedly, while the sleuth next to him managed to convey, “Told you that the man was an idiot!” without a sound.

“Shoved you out of the crime scene, sir, but you weren’t in uniform, so…” Philip blabbed out.

“Yup. I know, my fault. But I needed to ask. You see, I’m pretty certain Sherlock can’t have deduced this and forced you to say it, and you wouldn’t be casually discussing it around him,” Greg cut in, taking pity on him.

“Of course not! I’d never,” Anderson declared earnestly.

“I know, now just another question – when did you tell me you were dating Sally?” the DI queried, probably interrupting a much lengthier assurance of reserve, if he knew the man at all. Anderson was a good bloke, but God, did he have a tendency to ramble!

“You really want to embarrass us today, don’t you? I never did, there was no need. Not after you caught us going at it against the copy machine. For a moment I thought you’d fire us both on the spot,” Philip confessed, and Greg would bet that he was blushing. That _had_ been a traumatic experience for all involved.  

“No idea why you see me as some sort of martinet, you know. But I do believe that you’d rather die than let Sherlock know this, so I’m assuming you’re really alive and safe, and that somehow he can indeed get people out of the game,” the inspector concluded.

“I hate to acknowledge it, but yes, sir,” Anderson acknowledged.

“I wish you and Sally all the best and so much happiness, then. Somehow, I suspect we won’t talk again…but if you want to, don’t hesitate. You do know my home telephone number, after all,” Greg said warmly.

“Will do. Thanks…Greg,” Philip assured, sounding almost moved.

He’d just closed the call, when the inspector handed Sherlock not only his mobile phone back, but his own, too. “Here it is… if you’d be so kind to get me out of Dyaus’ mess,” he said.

“Of course, Lestrade, don’t be ridiculous,” the sleuth acquiesced, with a sharp nod. Not five minutes later, the DI’s phone vanished, together with an old, mismatched bowl mummy wouldn’t miss.

“Just one thing, though. I see your reasoning about possibly being in someone’s sights already, and disappearing for safety. But I think I’ll take my chances and risk staying where I am. You said so, Sherlock. I’m a cop, I don’t know how to be anything else. Running from my place wouldn’t be a good reference. Never mind that, unless the game has a good result, the world ends in less than a dozen days anyway. Taking flight now seems rather pointless, honestly,” Greg remarked, shrugging.

“Are you sure?” John asked, frowning.

“I am. Besides, I offered you my help a long time ago, and that offer is more than standing now. If I flee to New Zealand, I won’t be much good in case you need a hand,” Lestrade pointed out, with a smile.  

“Thanks,” Sherlock replied earnestly. “Mind you, I expect that you’ll still let _me_ help _you_ as always, you know.”

The inspector laughed. “More than ever, I think."


	39. Sherlock is a bit not good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing

“I know that your policy is playing on the defensive, but I’m wondering if we should start seeking out players. Since we have the chance to offer them the option to survive, it’s not like we would be going out of our way to harm someone. Even your morals should have no qualms with it,” Sherlock pointed out when they were alone again.

John nodded. “I suppose. You’re right, of course. I just can’t imagine how to find out who’s involved. Dyaus’ choices seem to be entirely random to me.”

“Well, good thing that you have someone with a working brain on your side. The players might have been a various ensemble, but they do have some similar traits…and I’m sure we can deduce who’s more likely to be selected,” the sleuth assured him, smiling.

“Yep. How I got a bonafide genius on my side I’ll never know,” John declared, looking overtly in awe of his friend.

The detective flushed a very becoming red, and shrugged. Revealing Dyaus’ claim that his own fondness for the man was but a pale reflection of the god’s favour would perhaps have been honest, but he refused to admit it. He was his own person, and reclaimed these feeling and choices as his own.

After all, he could have ignored the deity’s instructions once he became a full-fledged man and player…but he loved John for the man himself. Because the doctor was the most brave, kind and all around good creature he’d ever met. Not because he’d been programmed to do so.

But confessing that was likely to make his friend balk. John had enough unwanted suitors as it was (one was definitely one too many). If only Jim hadn’t existed, maybe…the sleuth couldn’t help the sudden rush of anger towards the IT man.

With John’s agreement, the first order of business was to look into the hospital. True, many contestants already orbited there  - Jim, John, Sarah – and all the ones who hitched on Sarah’s power. Too many, someone would say.

But if contestants were meant to find each other, such a concentration made sense. It was best to check everyone rather than assume it would now be a safe environment and risk being ambushed. Sherlock already frequented Bart’s regularly for his experiments, so his coming around to poke at people’s nerves wouldn’t even seem strange to the ones who were uninvolved with their apocalyptic game.

Obviously, the best idea to discover secret enemies was to drop vague hints that would alarm them. Let them come against Sherlock. He now even had a blog, not that he would need it to read people’s plans – it was practically his work.

Thankfully for John, most of the people the sleuth probed huffed, blinked and generally discounted his eerie sentences as the habitual quirks of a madman. Many of them yelled at the sleuth, and ordered him to run along and go back to the morgue, rather than harassing people who were actually working.

None of the rebukes fazed the consulting detective. Certainly the morgue was safe. After all, Moriarty was down there with Molly half the time.  He would have certainly cleared the area himself if a rival lurked there. Or so the consulting detective had assumed. If you could count on Moriarty for something, it was for ruthless murder, wasn’t it?

Until he insinuated himself in John’s office, because why shouldn’t he? Not bothering people at work didn’t apply here. A friend wasn’t a bother, was it? It wasn’t like Sherlock was interrupting the doctor while he operated or performed other life-saving procedures. As much as it was a pity, most of John’s patients had boring ailments, more likely to annoy them if a visit was slightly delayed than anything else. The detective was careful enough to slip in right after an obvious hypochondriac, so that John’s ideals of professionalism would be slightly lowered.

Still, the blond hissed, “I’m working!” with an unconvincing glare towards his friend.

“Barring Moriarty, this hospital is safe as a nursery. Dull. I’d really hoped that we could weed out at least another one or two contestants before moving farther,” the sleuth huffed, crossing his arms and leaning against his friend’s desk.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, I’d say that Jim is more than enough.  He still insists we should be partners, but well. His idea of a partnership – both sentimental and as a team for the game – isn’t healthy,” the doctor retorted, in a whisper.

Sherlock beamed at him. “John, you’re brilliant! I might have overlooked an option, and a very important one. I’ll be back!” he exclaimed, running away like a bullet. Moriarty was obsessed with John, of course. The IT technician didn’t really love his fiancée. But he was fond of her – fond enough to fake a relationship just so she wouldn’t have to admit she couldn’t attract a man, or whatever was Molly’s reasoning to need a significant other who couldn’t possibly make her happy in a conventional sense. And if he liked her, and was inclined to team up with people for the game, they might be be partners in more than the sentimental sense.

Even Jim Moriarty was human enough to wish to delay murdering people whom he liked, apparently. That definitely warranted a check-up. Hence why the consulting detective stilled a moment, out of the morgue, to fluff his hair. Molly was terribly easy to manipulate.

The sleuth strolled in with a winning smile, and noticed happily that a) the pathologist was alone, and b) her breath visibly hitched at his entrance. This was a good start.

“Sherlock,” she breathed. “I didn’t receive any murder victims…I think.”

“I’m not here about a case,” he purred.

“Oh,” she said, sounding almost…disappointed? Why? “If it’s for an experiment, sorry, but I don’t have any bodies headed for the crematorium. If I let you take something, or play with it, there’s a chance someone would notice…or at least seriously wonder...”

“I’m not here for that either,” the sleuth replied, waving away her apologies. “I’m here about you, Molly Hooper.”

She flushed deeply.”Yes..?” she queried, unconsciously leaning towards him.

“I worry about you, you know. Often,” the detective murmured, channeling his best mummy impression, but taking care to tone it down – just a tad. “That serial killer who…disappeared lately, the Golem, was planning to hunt around the hospital. And the terrorist who challenged John not long ago? Honestly, hospital used to be safe places. It feels almost like it’s _the end of the world_.”

There was a lightning quick hint of an amused smile when he mentioned the Tiger. This was…unexpected. Why would she smile? Had she taken him down? Well, that confirmed it. She was definitely involved.

“Do you really worry…for me? That’s so sweet of you,” the pathologist cooed.

“Let’s be frank, Molly. I know about Dyaus,” the sleuth snapped, annoyed at her insinuation, “and you’re not goddess material.”

Her lips went thin with hurt before a challenging glint entered her eyes. “Are you sure?” she retorted.

“I am. I’ll be honest. I was brought up to believe that a deity should be fair, and – while it’s decidedly not my place to complain – I know all too well how inclined you are to playing favourites," he replied, with a boyish grin.

She laughed weakly. “I suppose. Still…”

“That’s why I’m here,” the consulting detective cut in, “you believe your only options are godhood or death. And trust me, you would ultimately die. John is a soldier, and trained as such – and still, Moriarty managed to kidnap him. Truly, he’s alive only because Jim played with him long enough for me to organise a rescue. Do you believe that you have better instincts, reflexes, or fighting ability than an army captain?” Sherlock inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“You were talking of options?” Molly asked, ignoring his rhetorical questions.

“I can cancel your blog – _just_ your blog – ensuring you’ll be alive and safe,”  the detective explained.

“What? Really?” the pathologist exclaimed, her jaw dropping.

“Really. When have I ever followed the rules when I could bend them?” he quipped, taking a step and getting very much in her personal space. “Of course, you’d have to leave London. Jim might not let you have the time to explain when he’ll finally decide that it’s time to get rid of a rival. I’d rather not be able to see you anymore and lose our synergy than have to live through your death. Don’t make me face that, Molly. Please.” His voice was even deeper than usual.

“I…you…” she stuttered, blushing even more.

“Only a handful of people tolerate me. you can’t be surprised that I don’t look forward to one of them being murdered,” Sherlock remarked, his voice going back to its usual register, tone suddenly almost casual.

“I…more than tolerate you, Sherlock,” Molly pointed out, voice breathy.

“Thank you! I wasn’t sure I could say you were a friend, but you are, aren’t you?” the sleuth said enthusiastically.

“A…friend,” the pathologist echoed dejectedly, but she immediately pasted a smile on her lips. “Of course I am your friend, Sherlock. And not dying is not something I’d do as a kindness to you, anyway,” the pathologist quipped, “if you truly have a way to save my life from Jim, I’ll be deeply thankful… I do realise that he’s deadly. You have no idea what I’ve seen him do. What he made me do.” Her lower lip trembled.

“Did he hurt you? Anything we can have him put away for? Graham would be happy to help,” he asked, earnest.

Her head shook vehemently. “No, I…I’m more likely to be put away, if anything. He won’t dirty his own hands. He made me do _things_ to people – players – that…” Her voice vanished. 

“That weren’t you. You picked your specialization not to hurt anyone, not even a little, or accidentally. Why didn’t you come to me for help?” the detective concluded for her.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” the pathologist snapped, before adding, much more softly “And I was terrified that he’d have you murdered.”

“Of course you aren’t, Molly. You’re a highly competent young woman. But you’re underestimating me. Let me help you. Hand your phone over – minutes, and you’ll be safe. I have contacts – I will help you to disappear. Jim might not take kindly to you just bowing out of your association with him. But I’d rather have an idiot in the morgue from tomorrow on than having you as long as possible, if that means ‘until Moriarty gets bored of you and has you killed’,” the sleuth replied fervently.

“My phone?” she echoed, frowning slightly.

“Well, you don’t expect me to cancel your blog telepathically, do you? Even I am not _that_ good,” Sherlock quipped, eliciting a chuckle from her. “Losing it will mean that you won’t be a target anymore,” he explained, “I’ve done it already, more than once – I know what I’m doing. You could call NSY and ask Geoff to confirm it, but I’d really rather get to it. Your boyfriend can be very volatile, so who knows how much time we have.”

“Greg, Sherlock – if you’re talking about Lestrade. Greg. But I didn’t know he played!” she corrected, smiling. Giving in, Molly took her phone out of her pocket. “I’m trusting you, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t betray me,” she beseeched gravely.

“As if I would,” he huffed, while speed typing. Soon  one of her Sahla’s needles – the ones for bone marrow aspiration – disappeared into the void. “Now, for your vanishing act…” he started lecturing.

Hours later, having solved the Molly matter, the consulting detective was there to escort John back from the hospital. It wasn’t that the former army doctor needed backup – or at least, admitted to needing it, but with Jim Moriarty in the building, Sherlock would fret less as long as he had the man in his field of vision. He had corrupted the nurses to warn him instantly if Jim came so much as in the same ward as John, but his friend didn’t need to know that. “You’re a genius, John,” he declared earnestly.

“Am I ?” the doctor wondered, amused.

“I was about to make a terrible error. Molly wasn’t only a contestant, but under Moriarty’s thumb, too. Dyaus knows what the two of them could have got up to, together. With Jim’s planning, and her quiet efficiency…they could have blindsided us. They very nearly did, and would have if you hadn’t pointed that out. But now it’s not a problem anymore – thanks to your talent as conductor of light. It helps that she didn’t want to work for Moriarty in the first place – but anyway, she had no chance,” the detective explained.

“She had no…don’t tell me you would have forced _Molly._ Attacked her, even! With all she’s done for you!” John replied, aghast.

“Attack?” the sleuth snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. She had no chance because I said please. As  long as I say it, she has never refused me anything. especially if I get physically close to her like I did. If she’d still been stubborn, I would have just mentioned something about her – any random physical detail will do. I suppose it’s because it proves I’m paying attention to her. But luckily I didn’t have to go that far,” he added, shrugging.

“You _flirted_ with Molly Hooper?” his friend hissed, clearly outraged.

That was odd. Why was John angry? “Of course not. Flirting would mean I intend to have a relationship with her, or sex at the very least. Neither of these has ever been or will ever be true,” he replied.

“It’s not just the intention that counts, Sherlock!” the doctor scolded sternly.

“Is it not?” the consulting detective echoed, sounding honestly baffled.

“It’s the acts! The attitude. If you behave the same way other people would when looking for sex, and she wants sex from you, which is obvious, that’s leading her on – and cruel,” John explained, most of his fury vanished when confronted with the extraordinary man’s apparent cluelessness. God, was the man a child?

“She is – well, was, I suppose, now – in a relationship,” the sleuth pointed out softly, “how is it supposed to be obvious she wants sex from me? Isn’t this what boyfriends are for?” Granted, Jim was gay, but if he cared for her, he should find something they could do. Shouldn’t he?

“That doesn’t stop people from wanting anyone. One’d think that as a detective you’d have seen enough evidence of it,” the doctor sighed, “You know, you should really apologise to her.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed, surprising his companion. “At least I won’t have occasion to make that mistake anymore. She’ll have to disappear to be safe from Moriarty anyway. I wouldn’t be able to be cruel anymore even if I wanted to.” At John’ stern glare, he added hastily, “Which I don’t. Obviously.” Still, old habits were hard to break, but he had a feeling his friend didn’t want to hear it now.

“Good to know,” John remarked, his frown disappearing into a brilliant smile.

Good, indeed.


	40. Jim's plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own a thing

Jim growled when Molly just vanished out of existence. They were supposed to be allies. If someone attacked her, why hadn’t she called him for help? He would have dropped anything to save her. Or at the very least sent Sebastian over to deal with it. Not that he loved her, or anything like that. There was no place for anyone in his heart but John, and he didn’t want there to be.

But she was his – he owned her, and he took care of those he owned. What sort of person would it make him otherwise? He might not have morals, but he had standards! The only explanation was that someone had ambushed her successfully, to the point where she had no time to contact him at all.

Most people might underestimate Molly Hooper, but she was actually very perceptive…like many persons ignored by the majority, in fact. So that an unknown enemy managed to drop in on her was cause for deep concern.

Jim had wanted his beloved doctor to appreciate him, so he’d refrained from going all-out in the game. Playing on the defensive, just like John would have wanted. The man would eventually have to recognise that his unwavering love deserved a prize. He was taking considerable risks by following that approach, after all.

Instinct made him text Moran. Thankfully the man had been tamed already, so the disappearance of the one wielding the scalpel with any proficiency should not be enough to have his favourite tiger revolt against him. Sebastian had learned that, as much as Jim preferred not to dirty his own hands, he didn’t shy away from torture if the mood struck. He might look like a wisp of a man, but knowledge mattered in inflicting pain even more than strength…and Jim’s cleverness was unmatched (the consulting detective notwithstanding).     

_Is there an emergency, Boss?_ The sniper replied immediately. _You said I could take this side job today._

He’d forgotten for a moment that Bast would be busy today. It was a bad idea to keep a leash too tight on him, or force him to laze around, until they were attacked. Jim could empathise with getting bored, and that wasn’t a thing his pet reacted to well. He’d end up either letting himself go (which was absolutely out of question during the game) or amassing too much energy and lashing out in an uncontrolled way – and allowing that would make Jim an irresponsible owner.

So of course, when one of his old, vetted clients had contacted Moran once again to get rid of a rival, Jim had waved his permission to the sniper. Honestly, he was rather proud that Bast came to him on his own, as soon as he received the offer, asking, “What do you think of that?”, slouching casually but still obviously looking at him as if he was his superior officer.   

Jim would never, ever confess that he’d texted because he was worried about the man. He was just…checking his resources. Ensuring that the mystery player hadn’t gotten rid of all his team. So, instead, he texted back, _You can, kitten. I was just bored. Be careful. JM_

This time, there was no answer. Not that Jim minded. His man would need to concentrate for his job to go without a hitch. If the unknown threat let Moran alone, and the man was killed by a random goon because Jim’s texts distracted him from reading his blog’s warning… well, then he deserved to be on his own, and John had made the right choice. And that could never be true. Moriarty made sure that there would be no accidental deaths under his supervision. It was simple as that.

So, Moran was safe. Well, as safe as he could be as a player in the god’s apocalyptic game *and* a professional sniper on the ‘most wanted’ list – both the police’s and, undoubtedly, that of some criminal associations against which he’d accepted jobs in the past. Not that he hated them, and if they were smart, instead of planning his murder they should have planned to outbid their rivals – it wasn’t as if Seb was faithful to anyone. Well, anyone but him, at the moment, and Jim was rightfully proud of that.

Now, he needed a way to strike back at the unknown enemy. He really, really should have pushed for the hospital to take part in the experiment of installing CCTV in all the hospital wards. This way, he would already know who was behind the sneak attack. He’d even mentioned it casually to Sarah, but the woman had been adamant that there was no need, as nobody had been mistreated and/or got out of her hospital with more infections than they’d come in with, and nobody ever would. Of course, her being a player and using other employees like puppets would have had some role in her decisiveness, so probably Jim couldn’t have convinced her – and would have been sacked if he tried going behind her back to enrol St. Bart’s in the program. Which meant that he wouldn’t be able to use Molly for as long as he did, or drop on John unannounced. Definitely not worth it. especially because, now that he thought about it, the morgue could be the one place nobody bothered to record. 

How to find someone…well, it would be too easy, if he hadn’t decided to play this game with some limitations for himself. Otherwise, being too clever ruined all the fun of the chase. Should he just ignore his own imposed rules and go all out? …But what if he got bored? No, he would stick to his original plan. He could still find and destroy whoever had thought Molly would be a simple target.

Not alone, maybe…but Jim Moriarty could be very persuasive, as Moran would have been able to testify. Only, the sniper was a perfect associate when they would have to eliminate the player (how convenient having a trained killer always just one text away), but to locate them, he would be absolutely useless.

As much as his tiger had chafed at military discipline, he truly was almost more of a weapon than a murderer. Always having someone pointing him at whom (what, probably, in his mind) needed killing. Whether it was the colonel, or his client, it didn’t matter. Now that his God hadn’t given him a name, the only one Moran had found out was John…and the silly man had done everything but put adverts in the papers saying he was playing. Well, what the former army doctor did was practically equivalent. Seriously, that man.    

Jim was the opposite. He believed that he could find their mystery contestant very quickly, even continuing to play with a hand tied behind his back…or its  mental equivalent, at least. He just needed some…resources. Ones that Jim from IT, the man with a simple nine-to-five job, and too busy stalking his destined love in his free time to take on another job, simply couldn’t afford.  

That was simply solved, though. He just needed to find someone who could afford them – preferably someone who already had them – and point out how sharing them would be in their reciprocal best interest. 

The most useful person would be the prime minister, obviously. He already had the CCTV – and London was the most covered city in the world. Finding someone – anyone – should be a piece of cake once he had access to that.

All he needed was to find a weakness in the man…and frankly, that should be easy. Politicians didn’t get anywhere, certainly not that high, without being shady – Jim was many things, but naïve was not one of them. No matter how much of a façade of virtue the man projected, it just meant that he knew how to hide well his flaws. And Jim knew how to read people.

Which meant that he needed to get close enough to analyse the man...preferably catching him unawares. Looking at his available photos and videos was obviously useless, because every feature would be carefully schooled. One didn’t get where the man was by wearing his heart on his sleeve when knowing one was under the media’s eye.

This meant that he had to work himself, though…annoying. He always liked it better when he could leave the boring bits to a goon. And Moriarty fully expected this to be tedious. Most people’s vices were dreadfully unoriginal. Some corruption, some sex they thought was weird, useful as blackmail material, but nothing you’d keep reading if it was in a fiction book.  

The only fun bit would be slipping through the security measures the man was sure to have in place. If they weren’t challenging enough, he had half a mind to send an official complaint. Just because he wanted to use their prime minister, it didn’t mean that it should be easy for anyone to do so. Jim was fond of this country...and he hated sloppy work. Even more sloppy work that favoured his plans. Without a challenge, what was the thrill in life? 


	41. Enter the Prime Minister, stage left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously I don’t own a single thing. A.N. Remember, this is NOT the actual BBC Sherlock universe, and relationships are different (see: Sherlock and Mycroft not being related) before you start throwing up for what I wrote here.

 

It took Jim two full days of research to find out what the Prime Minister hid, to the man’s credit. With their days numbered, and the month being way too close to its end for anyone’s comfort, it was a relief to realise that at least their state (or statesmen’s) secrets were moderately safe. When Jim wanted something fervently, it usually happened almost as soon as he thought it. He had a talent for being ‘persuasive’ and sharp-eyed.

What he finally uncovered, though, made him clap in enthusiasm. Oh, this was not boring. Not boring at all. As always, it was the tiniest detail that betrayed the man. Habit, faithfulness to tradition (which was to be expected from a Tory, he supposed), faith in the British respect of privacy as long as people weren’t too flamboyant, had persuaded the Prime Minister that just wearing a ring wouldn’t be a tell. Nor even noticed, probably.

But it was Jim’s work to observe things, so when someone wears a wedding ring, digging into the existence of a Prime Minister's wife was instinctive. How everybody else had ignored it before was a shame on the reputation of all journalists, frankly.

It was oddly fitting that someone who presented himself as a pillar of old-style values had a secret that wouldn’t be out of place in a gothic novel. Jim snickered at himself, but with something like admiration. Attaining total secrecy and coupling it with complete lack of shame was a talent he could appreciate. Perhaps Moriarty wouldn’t even need to blackmail the man into compliance, they had a similar disregard for anything but their own goals, after all.      

It was indicative of the kind of person their esteemed Prime Minister was that his wife ended up being a psychotic murderer…Jim fully believed this was a case of ‘birds of a feather flock together’. If only because when she had been discovered, not only had Mycroft Holmes hushed the whole matter up (that was just common sense), or ensured that the insanity defence was exploited to its full effect, despite that the majority of her actions – cruelty aside – demonstrated a deep ability to reason, and calculate the effects of her behaviour on her victims.

No, Mrs. Holmes (again, Mycroft had never actually divorced her) had been interned in a criminal asylum that – as Bast had pointed out – was notorious for being…not so high security, despite its claims. Jim wouldn’t be surprised if she still enjoyed an afternoon of shopping every now and then, possibly complete with a homeless murder. He was almost sad that the Prime Minister had noticed her first – she would have made a wonderful playmate, he suspected.

And yes, as soon as Bast was done with his contract, Moriarty had ordered him to report to base and not to leave his presence. It wasn’t that he was worried about the man. Just, without Molly to play entertainer, he needed someone to share the tedium of life.  

Armed with his newfound knowledge – and his sniper a faithful shadow, a step behind him – Jim sauntered in the venue he’d picked for his meeting with the Prime Minister. An anonymous message to the man’s private number, with a polite request and a pointed allusion, should be enough to ensure the other’s presence, if nothing else.

If Mycroft had brought men with him, they were entirely out of sight. Jim wouldn’t exclude the presence of someone...It all depended on how many people he trusted with his secret, or had a strong enough hold on that giving them the chance to blackmail him didn’t matter. The man had somehow managed to equip the abandoned warehouse with a table set with tea for two. No biscuits, though. He supposed that asking for them would be too much gall.

“Good day, Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty drawled, extending his hand and offering him a shark-like smile.

“You have one over me, Mr…” the politician said, shaking it with a gloved hand. As if Jim would be so crude to somehow poison him by skin contact.

“M, for now. What can I say, Bast over here got me into Bond movies. It’s not like you won’t discover who I am very soon, I expect, but believe me, getting rid of me is the one way to have your little secret trending on every social media in existence,” Jim replied, nodding toward his companion.

“Obviously, anyone would say so,” Mycroft pointed out, with a thin-lipped smile.

“Obviously,” Moriarty agreed, sitting down without being invited to do so. “If it’s a bet you are willing to take, you’re welcome to try.”

“Let’s not be hasty. Only unwise people rush into action. Tea?” the Prime Minister replied, sitting down opposite to him.

“Yes, thank you. With just a slice of lemon, please,” Jim nodded, polite as one could be.

The other complied, looking as if he spent all his days doing nothing but organising tea parties…which might be true, at that. No, no… someone who fell in love with a serial killer would never be satisfied with being simply a figurehead while other people made the decisions. Where would be the fun in that?

“I’ve had my share of disgruntled voters, like anyone else…but never someone who took such pains to get to know me personally, I’ll admit. I would feel flattered, but I am mostly puzzled. You must have a very strong motivation to dig so deep, Mr. M,” Mycroft remarked casually, after a sip.

“You’re right, of course. I have many different reasons, but I’ll give you just one…my God demands it of me,” Moriarty quipped, with a lopsided smile.

“And your God would be?” the politician asked, betraying no emotion at all, even if the very rigidity of his body made Jim suspect that he was very tempted to roll his eyes.

It was a calculated move from the IT man, in order to make the other underestimate his cleverness and overestimate the danger he posed at the same time.  “Oh, you wouldn’t have heard of Him,” Jim said, waving away the Prime Minister's question.

“The scope of my knowledge could surprise you,” the Prime Minister retorted.   

Did he lie? Did he tell the truth? *Which would benefit him more? In the end, he compromised. Not Dyaus’ name, no. But an attribute in the same language that his God had introduced himself in, and which was often used when talking about deities, though one Dyaus had never claimed for himself. The fact that it lent itself to food puns – though he wasn’t sure that their mayor had ever eaten anything not traditionally British (boring) – was just an extra bonus. “Pità,” he replied, shrugging.

Mycroft frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a name…unless your religion forbids you to speak of it.”

Gotcha! As long as the man was annoyed, it counted as a win. To keep your enemy wrongfooted was the best advice, after all. “I thought you were a busy man, Prime Minister. I see that you’re more interested in a cultural exchange than in our little deal. Which we could manage in a moment, so you could go back to your crucial duties,” Jim ribbed, with a predatory grin. Of course he realised why the other man was probing. Understanding one’s motivations was necessary to be able to negotiate, and he was a blank slate for the politician. Holmes’ only chance at this point was to accept his requests…with no knowledge of him, there was no chance for him to make a counteroffer. Which was exactly what the player wanted.

“I’m not used to rushing my meetings, I’ll admit,” the Prime Minister retorted, “and I’m giving you the courtesy of considering this with the same care as I would the yearly budget examination. I didn’t expect you to be in a hurry, but if you’re awaited somewhere, we can obviously discuss our main subject. Though I’d like to offer you a ride, in case you’re worried about missing a train or something of the sort. An extra few minutes might help us reach a better understanding.”

Moriarty couldn’t help it. He guffawed, as impolite as it was. “I know why you were elected. You’re a comedian, you are! As if I would get into a car you provided, even with Bast by my side. I’m not completely insane, you know.”

The Prime Minister managed not let any of his outrage slip, and only said, just as politely as anything else, “State your requests, then.”

“You have the CCTV, controlling every nook and cranny of good old London. I might have hacked that, but I’d expect people to catch up – hopefully sooner rather than later – and then they’d boot me out and add more security, and I’d have to hack it _again_ … Which I am confident I could do, but it would take time, and you know what they say. Time is money, and I’m a bit short on both at the moment. So all I ask is access to the network. You have passwords. I want them. I just want to _look_ , Mr. Holmes. For my own reasons. I can assure you it’s not a terror attack – heck, you won’t even notice that I’m in. But I don’t need to say what happens if you protect _other people’s_ privacy. Do I?” Jim explained. “Five, four…” he started counting.

“You’re not giving me much time to come up with a different proposition, are you?” Mycroft cut in, raising an eyebrow.

“I only need a word. Two,” Moriarty retorted, crossing his arms in front of him.

The politician sighed deeply. “Yes.” 


	42. Caught unaware

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I obviously still don’t own a thing. A.N. Short-ish chapter this month, I know, but heat wave killed me and stopped me from writing for most of the month. Sorry! I hope you’ll enjoy it all the same.

 

Jim hadn't expected what he'd found. His Molly had left the hospital on her own two feet, and fled…obviously to escape some threat she’d been warned about. Once again, why would she do that, rather than come to Jim for help? That was, frankly, insulting.

Never mind. Let her run. He was in London. John was in London. Seb was in London. Eventually, she would have to come back to face them – or at the very least, the remaining one. If the game didn’t end properly, the whole world would end. It wasn’t as if hiding until the end would help her much in the way of surviving.

Of course, that would not mean that when she came back he would be gentler with her…underestimating his powers meant that she needed to be made to feel them. Now, since his attempts to woo John by being meek didn’t seem to have any success, he might as well look for patterns and find the other contestants.

It should be relatively simple. Even without being as blatant as his beloved about it (not making the news) someone who was a bit too lucky – or who solved too many problems for their loved ones, in case their blog was oriented to someone else, like Anderson’s or his own – should not be impossible to find. Not for someone like him at least. Obviously, one of the random idiots that seemed to fill the world, aware of the game and its rules or not, would probably never find a contestant without receiving a written invitation by them.

True, technically, contestants didn’t have to be in London. Even if they had originally been, there was no rule saying they couldn’t run, like sweet Molls had done. But – balance of probability. If Dyaus wanted the game finished with some sort of result, instead of the universe being gone in a sudden Big Crunch, their God could definitely cheat a bit to ensure that the candidates weren’t out of reach. God of Space, Time and Causality. Ensuring that your flight was cancelled, or that your car’s engine broke down when you tried to run away, seemed the very definition of his job.

Which was the reason why, not finding anyone that seemed to fit the profile he was looking for, Jim frowned. True, he had fast forwarded through most of the film, but noticing details quickly was his talent. No one seemed to be ‘too good’, and that was appalling. What had he missed? He never slipped. It just didn’t happen. It was the reason why he was considered a fitting god candidate in the first place. So? Why was the world going topsy-turvy?

With a growl of frustration, Jim slammed his computer shut. He was tempted to shoot a text to Sebastian and require him to give up whatever he was up to, at the moment. A quick, wild shag in a drab hotel room would reset him enough to get back at his task and, undoubtedly, reach his goal. He just needed a few endorphins to set him right.

Well, he did get a hormonal burst fifteen minutes later, just not the one he was after. One’s home being invaded by SWAT does wonders for one’s adrenaline. His phone hadn’t warned him, so, on the plus side, he wasn’t about to die violently. But damn, the difference between an environment-oriented blog like John’s or Bast’s, and a people-oriented blog like his own was frustrating in situations like these. Never mind. He had plans in place. What mattered was not to let the enemy know you are in distress. Then they will start doubting that they have as much leverage on you as they thought.

Ending in a concrete cell was not something that terrified Jim. Walls wouldn’t hurt him. And for all the bluster when they caught him, his captor left him relatively alone afterwards. Honestly, he was more in danger of dying of boredom than anything else.

Hours later, he finally had a visit…from their esteemed Prime Minister. Half of him had expected it, of course. The other half hadn’t wanted to believe that the man was stupid enough to rethink their cooperation so soon. “It seems that your memory is failing, Mr. Holmes. Should I worry about the future of the country?” he quipped with a smirk, ignoring the fact that he was jailed and chained.

“Oh, I assure you, my memory is perfect,” the other man replied, with an almost oily air of politeness.

“So you don’t mind anymore if your wife’s past and little side trips are exposed? And here I thought you loved her. My bad,” Moriarty corrected himself, with an attempt at shrugging that didn’t go too well.  (They’d exaggerated with his bindings, honest.)        

“Oh, I do, very much. She’s like no one else I’ve ever met. This is why I gave you a couple of days of freedom. I needed to assess your threat level,” the Prime Minister replied coldly.

“Well, assess this: if I don’t get home in time for dinner, your private life – in all its sordid details – will be sent to a number of online newspapers, national and international, as well as being shared on all the social media in existence. I go home, and I’ll postpone the release for another day,” Jim revealed, with a sneer.

“No,” Mycroft Holmes said simply, smiling back smugly.

“What do you mean, no? Do you mean you have already hacked and deleted  my posts?  …But are you sure you deleted all the backup copies, too?” the bound man insinuated.

“No, I haven’t even looked for them…because I’ve deduced that you’re lying. You’re a smart man, as much as it pains me to admit it. You wouldn’t have opted for an automatic spreading of the news, because you know accidents happen. People lose their phones, people get fevers – and more so working in a hospital, I’d imagine – and wake up fifteen hours later than they’d planned…and if it were released unintentionally, you’d lose your hold on me,” the politician expounded.

“Even if you were right – and I’m not saying you are, I’m just saying that you have more guts than I expected from someone in your line of work, and that’s commendable – I would have taken precautions so that, in the case of my demise or incarceration, your secrets would be spread,” Jim pointed out cheerily.

“Naturally. But this meant that you’d need an accomplice. I’ve spent the last days determining the chance of each acquaintance of yours to be part of the plan…and how likely it would be that they would go through with it,” the prime minister revealed, walking around the man.

“And you think my associates wouldn’t?” Moriarty snapped, narrowing his eyes.

“If you hadn’t fallen prey to lust, maybe. Kept things professional. But you had to get involved. Evoke feelings. So no, he won’t. Because as soon as the news was made public, you would have no hold over me, and your life would be forfeit. So he’ll try to get you out. All because you couldn’t keep it in your pants. You’ll not win – as if you ever could have – and you won’t get to ruin me either. Rather a sad ending, if you ask me,” Mycroft stated, his voice dripping condescension.

“It certainly would be...If it actually happened. We can’t agree on the future, though. I’m waiting for the results with baited breath,” Jim quipped. Never let it be said that he’d allow circumstances to bring him down.  


	43. An unlikely request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine as usual.

Blog or not, John didn’t expect that visit. No, that was completely false: he expected it, of course, anytime; he wasn’t naïve enough to think that the Tiger had just forgotten about him. The man had shot at him, and helped Jim kidnap him. Allied with Moriarty or not, someday the sniper would have wanted to take him out. Possibly after turning on the IT genius. So, of course John expected a visit from him – eventually.

What the doctor would have never imagined was that his blog would have warned him of the Tiger coming around without adding a big DEAD END in all capitals for better emphasis. With the track record they had, it looked downright surreal that the man should just pop for a cup of tea and a biscuit. John considered tipping off Lestrade. The inspector had been looking for the Tiger for a long time, and – unlike the sniper – he was a friend. But if the criminal had escaped capture this long, it was obviously thanks to his own blog. If the police were waiting to ambush him at John’s, the other would simply never show up.

Now, the doctor had one huge flaw (well, obviously, he had more than one, but this one might very probably cost him his life): curiosity. It made it so easy for him bond with Sherlock, who shared the tendency to the most reckless degree. John wanted to hear what the criminal had to say. So, contacting the police – in advance or not – was out.

Which was why (despite still feeling a bit guilty towards Greg), John set things up to welcome the infamous Tiger in his little bedsit – which was apparently where he’d been tracked to. Tea in the kettle, milk in the fridge, scones in the pantry and his gun in his pocket. Being polite was one thing, being idiotic was another. Sherlock would not know about this until it ended. If it turned ugly, the doctor wasn’t going to put his friend in harm’s way. 

When Moran came ringing the bell – at the expected time – his attire made the doctor relax. It wasn’t anything fancy like Jim or Sherlock favoured, but it had been obviously very carefully picked…so that there would be no space for a firearm to be hidden on him without it being immediately patent. Not that the man couldn’t put up a fight without a gun – John had certainly not forgotten how good he was in hand-to-hand combat. But between that, and the lack of warning on his blog – he hadn’t come to murder John. Which was weird.

“Tea?” the doctor asked, welcoming him in, with a warmer smile than he would have otherwise.

“Yes, thank you,” the sniper replied, looking around as if unsure of where he should sit.  

John pointed him to the only chair, and Moran took it and remained quiet until he had received his cup, and drunk a good half of it. Well, he couldn’t have come to stare at the other, could he?

“So…Colonel Moran, if I remember well?” John queried, trying to start a conversation.

“Yep. But you can call me Seb. After all, I hope we could not be on opposing sides. For a little while, at least,” the sniper said, leaning his head to the left in a gesture that reminded John weirdly of Moriarty.

“Why?” the doctor replied, crossing his arms.

“It won’t make much sense to you, probably. But…well, Jim got himself in over his head. I wasn’t there to protect him, otherwise he’d be safe. I just went back home and it had been stormed. I would get him out of wherever, but for once, I don’t think I can do that alone. We don’t have just the police to deal with. Very possibly we could face MI5,” Moran explained, matter of factly.

“MI5? Nothing more?” John quipped, with a lopsided smile. “But never mind that…are you seriously asking me to rescue Jim from whatever he brought on himself?” He raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“Fine, he doesn’t show it in the best way, I’ll give you that, but he cares about you,” Seb agreed, earning a snort from the other. “If you were the one in trouble – well, trouble he hadn’t caused – he would move hell to get you to safety. Of course, if you don’t want to, I’ll have to just hire someone else, but if Jim has such a high opinion of you, I thought you had to have talent. He doesn’t settle for anything less than brilliant.”

“Thanks, I think? Let me ask another question, though,” the doctor replied, sitting on his bed. “You’re playing the game, right? Which means that eventually you expect to have to murder Jim, unless you’re suicidal – and you don’t strike me as a suicidal bloke. So why don’t you just ignore what happened to Jim and let him face whatever he brought on himself, instead of risking so much to save him? You would have it all done for you.”

It wasn’t that John wanted Jim dead, for what he’d done to him, or that he was too afraid to fight. But he had a chance to inquire, and he wanted to understand. He’d sort of assumed that Moran was cooperating and humouring Jim only to keep the man from killing him, or otherwise going wild. The unusual display of loyalty shocked him.

“You’re alive,” Moran remarked, with a shrug. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer Jim to stay alive as long as you do. Of course, you’d rather one of us were to drop dead first. I get it. When you decide we’ve all dillydallied long enough, come for me. I doubt that Jim would mind if you won, though I don’t promise to fold. But Jim being dead and the two of us playing still…well, that simply sounds like a waste, you know?”

“A waste?” John echoed, frowning. Jim was brilliant, for sure. but did this make him automatically more worthy of living – or of becoming god – of the two of them? Seb at least sounded like he could put himself in other people’s shoes...which one could argue was just as important, if not more, for a deity, than being able to calculate ten moves in advance.

“I don’t have to explain to you he’s a fucking genius, do I? But it’s not just that, I’ll admit. You might not care for him, but I rather like his body…and believe me, you’ve passed on someone who knows some amazing tricks in bed. Not that I’m complaining, you know. Your loss, my gain. I hope you’ll never become an item – he’d throw me to the curb in a second. But I’d rather not have him end dead in a ditch before there’s an absolute need to, if it’s all the same to you.”   

John’s jaw dropped for a second, before he grinned widely and said, “You’re in love with him!” Not that he hadn’t been fascinated by Jim himself, for a while, but his stalkerish ways had brusquely awakened him to the man’s true nature.

“What? No!” the sniper yelled. “I’m not…Sure, we have sex, but love? That’s way too sappy for people like me. I thought you knew. After killing enough people, most emotions are drained out of you if you’re lucky. Haven’t you been to war, Captain? Or is that a fake rank?”

“Fuck you Moran. Do I need to pass an exam? Explain to you the layout of our Kandahar’s quarters? No, I don’t. War might have cracked me, but it has not broken me entirely. And you might think it has left you splintered, have made your peace with it, even told yourself it’s for the best. But you haven’t. Because no mere shag, no matter how awesome, is worth facing such dangers, not when doing nothing gets you closer to literal fucking godhood,” the former captain growled, getting up again and very much in the other’s personal space.

Sebastian didn’t flinch. “I thought you were a regular doctor, not a bloody shrink. Or have you upgraded recently? What business is it of yours anyway? Just say no, so I can get around to hiring someone who will actually help,” he spat back.

John laughed at that. “No, no, that’s not what I was getting at. I needed to know, because I didn’t want to do anything that Jim might misconstrue as me leading him on. He’s creepy enough with me after I learned to keep him at arm’s length. But I do know that he can be absolutely fucking brilliant. And, to be honest, I’m a sucker for a good love story,” he admitted.

“So you’ll help me?” Moran asked, deciding against insisting it was not a love story if it brought him what he needed.

“If you promise to keep him off my back…as much as you can, at least. I’m not asking the impossible, I do know him. But hopefully, some hint that I’m helping the two of you get back together – in all senses of the word – should help him get the hint that I’m not going to fall at his feet, ever,” the doctor quipped.

“As much as I can. Of course I will,” the sniper echoed, “now, what I was thinking of doing is…”

The other halted him with a raised hand. “Let me phone Sherlock first. I don’t mind taking on the whole secret service if need be, but since we’re just two we’ll need some true brilliance in the strategy department. Luckily we have the man for the job.” The idea of his friend refusing to help didn’t even flit through his head.

Again, Moran shrugged. “As long as he’s quick.”


	44. The daring rescue…sort of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I obviously don’t own a single thing.

Sherlock was used to expecting the unexpected – and more so since he became involved with the game of a clearly mad god. But when he was asked to coordinate Jim Moriarty’s rescue…well, that was not something he had foreseen. His blog – tailored to him – spoke in clues, but when you believed something to be entirely impossible bias could make you misunderstand them.

Just because he didn’t want John to forgive his kidnapper and stalker, it didn’t mean that such a feat was unrealizable, as he learned to his dismay. And if part of him worried that this was the first step to the doctor reconnecting with the other genius (and maybe even deepening their relationship), still he didn’t have any right to say so.   At least, their other singular associate clearly showed that he would be competition for Moriarty’s bed, bless him. (Was it odd to bless a known terrorist? Even if your interests coincided?)

All the sleuth replied, when presented with the situation and asked to help with the planning, was, “Of course I will. Now, I need all the data you have about everything – and I mean it.” Because whenever John asked for anything, the only reply he seemed capable of uttering was some variation of yes. Even if it should spell his doom. Then again, the world was ending already. So self-destruction, as long as it kept John happy, really seemed like a sensible choice.

Moran started a full report, handing over some of Jim’s things that might yield relevant info too. He knew he would pay for it in blood (and more than likely a few more strips of skin) when his partner realised what he’d done. But at least Jim would be there to exact his revenge.  

The sniper wanted to press the others to hurry, but he knew that rushing through the strategy phase meant a botched up job…and even if he didn’t mind the idea of dying to save Jim, the idea of dying uselessly was less appealing. So he sat tight, tried to calculate exactly how long ago Jim had been taken, and how long their Prime Minister would want to toy with the man before allowing him a merciful death. What Sebastian tried hard not to imagine (and vainly, of course, like every attempt to *not* think of something is doomed) was what Jim would be going through in that moment.

On one side, the IT man could give pointers to professional interrogators, as Seb himself could testify. On the other…it was a thing to dish out the torture and a whole another can of worms being the one enduring it. If they broke Jim…then Sebastian would put a bullet between his lover’s eyes himself and call it a day. The world was already ending. There was no humanity in keeping a wreck of a man alive when some people – even if the sniper himself didn’t – would be hunting him all the time. Dyaus’ fucking cat and mouse game needed people in top shape.  

Well, if they did, he would go back afterwards, and the United Kingdom would spend the apocalypse subject to political unrest, besides whatever mess Dyaus’ deteriorating powers would cause, after its Prime Minister’s murder. Still, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. It shouldn’t, if Watson’s favourite genius could just hurry up and come up with a plan before Moran got bored and went to the rescue on his own.       

Finally, they were ready. Sherlock had determined the most probable location where Jim would be held, they had amassed quite the arsenal between them (mostly generously provided by the Tiger, really), and with John’s and Sebastian’s blogs being both focused on their surroundings it should have been a piece of cake. Get in, snatch Jim from their grasp, get out. (The fact that the detective had a blog, too, wisely escaped mention. It wouldn’t do for the sniper to try to take him out as soon as they were safe…ish) Things turned out to be harder than they hoped. For all that it was supposed to be a secret base – as the prime minister wouldn’t have let Jim and his possibly loose mouth anywhere his captive could have spread his knowledge and generated more blackmailers – it was _teeming_ with people. They weren’t even in London, where a crowd might go unnoticed. (PM Holmes had hit the perfect distance between being able to visit easily if he wanted to and isolated enough that if Dyaus himself got the man out of jail Jim wouldn’t be able to spread his news to the general public before being caught again).       

No matter how they tried to escape them, more men seemed to pop out from the direction they took refuge in to avoid being noticed. Were they…were they being corralled? If Sherlock hadn’t personally disabled  the surveillance systems, it would have been easy to believe. As it was…how the fuck did they manage it? If someone had physically seen them, they would have been attacked. As it was… it felt like they were pawns on a chessboard. None of them appreciated it.

Somehow (not entirely due to their own cleverness, to be honest), their little team did reach Jim’s cell. “Oh, hello, Boss,” Seb said, finally finding the man after unlocking yet another door just a crack. That he hadn’t needed any particular skills to pick it made the hair on the back of his neck stand. Too easy…

“Tiger! What the heck do you think you’re doing here?” Moriarty scolded, raising an eyebrow.

The sniper grimaced at the obvious mistrust in his abilities. Not that he’d expected the other man to swoon, damsel-in-distress style. Still, it would have been nice not to be treated as a dog who’d strayed somewhere its owner didn’t like. Instead of replying, he signalled to the others to come in. He had a feeling Jim wouldn’t react the same way to them.

The grin when the genius saw John was expected. The purred, “Oooh – Bast should have said you just like to see me bound. I’m proud if I helped awaken your kink,” not entirely.

“Christ, Jim, I’m just here to check if the tender mercies of our secret service have left you able to walk away at all!” John snapped, getting close for a very cursory exam while the Tiger stood guard by the door.

Sherlock rushed on the doctor’s steps, and started working on the lock of Jim’s chains. The fact that the man was bound to a chair in a relatively easy to access room meant that they could expect a visit soon anyway. They needed to move! The detective ignored Moriarty’s, “Him, too? I’m not really into orgies. Especially if you insist on bringing someone you fucking know I’m jealous of into the mix, Johnny. This is not kind.” He didn’t care about Jim’s opinion of him. What he was doing was only to please John anyway.

“Keep being this stupid and I’ll leave you here,” the doctor growled, “Seriously, Jim! I’m only here because Seb said he misses you.”

“Did not!” the sniper blurted out, trying to tone down his voice. The last thing they needed was to attract people.

“Well, you certainly implied it,” Sherlock butted in. “And now, if we could all kindly _move_ before  a whole platoon comes to check what we’re up to, it’d be appreciated.” If he was a tad too harsh helping Jim out of his chair, well, it was just because his perfect plan was being hindered somehow. But of course the IT man moaned as theatrically as he could (though the hurt was honest) and flopped bonelessly on John’s back.

Only, the doctor wasn’t having any of his dramatics – and the last thing he wanted was to encourage Jim to grow more attached. So, John (gently, of course) shook him off into the surprised but welcoming hands of Moran.

“But Johnny, I need a doctor!” Moriarty wailed.

“And I won’t be able to care for you if I’m carrying you. Seb is not against having you in his arms, and mostly we’ll discuss this later because it looks like the whole fucking secret service is coming this way,” John retorted. There would not be time for any type of proper treatment if they were all gunned down in the midst of it. One would think that a genius like Jim would realise that.

Jim finally shut up, and found a semi-comfortable position, latching on Bast’s neck and being supported by him…but still allowing the sniper a free hand to shoot with if necessary. This felt…odd. Despite the ongoing game, he felt safe with his Tiger. He even allowed himself a bit of a pout. Moriarty was used to always being the one calling the shots…but having to, rather than choosing to, rely on someone else wasn’t the hell he’d feared.

Wait, no, he took it all back. Were these steps he heard? It was one thing for someone’s blog to warn them…quite another to feel like a prey with a predator on his heels. The point of a rescue wasn’t to get your party trapped and keep the hostage company, he was rather sure. That’s what you got for trusting people like Sherlock Holmes to organise things. (Obviously he had. As if John’s hero worship of the man wasn’t frustrating enough.) 


	45. It gets better before it gets worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing

 

As far as Jim was concerned, he had saved himself. Sure, sure, that little rescue party they put together (not that he objected to Bast and John, he very much loved the idea, but what was Sherlock even doing in it?) might technically have unchained him. And shot a few people on his account, too – though John had always aimed to momentarily incapacitate rather than killing, which was frankly insulting because it’s not like these people had ever gone easy on _him_. Thankfully his kitten at least had the right idea on how to deal with the enemy.

But fact was, somehow his intended ‘saviours’ managed to blip on the radar of someone’s blog. It was the only explanation for Bast’s grumbled, “They’re fucking herding us,” and it might also explain why Jim hadn’t just been shot in the head to terminate his little game with the PM. He was supposed to be bait from the start. More practical to kill a few players in one swoop, wasn’t it?  And of course the lovable idiots fell for it, despite the sleuth pretending to be the brains of the operation. To be fair, though, Bast might not have given them much choice on whether to storm the castle or not. His surprisingly faithful sniper (that was why people were so fond of pets, wasn’t it?) tended to have lead do the talking for him.

 Now, what annoyed Jim – did he really have to do everything himself? – was that, when he’d been scooped up in his pet’s strong arms, he’d been informed that the lot of them weren’t just dealing with another player, but that they didn’t seem to be able to shake off the pursuers closing on them. It was almost as if he’d never taught John how to scramble a future blog’s predictions, never mind that Sherlock, if he really was such a genius, should have been able to deduce as much himself…

Luckily for them all, Jim was there now, and he had enough confidence in himself to follow any whim that took him the very second it popped in his head, not giving the blogs enough time to register and correct themselves… And if one of these whims entailed confronting some of the agents they were studiously avoiding head on, well, so be it. 

It was better than being manipulated into whatever the enemy planned. And if the consulting detective was ‘accidentally’ shot, he wouldn’t cry a river over it. The agents who were looking for them (or pretending to look, maybe, given how carefully their movements were being restricted and herded) were definitely counting on information from a blog, so they were more surprised at being unexpectedly confronted than they would otherwise have been.

Jim treating their breakout like a circus show, being as loud and chaotic as he could, while he’d been pretty much passive in his imprisonment, was one more thing that left them apparently wrong-footed (not many people were as blatant in their escape attempt, apparently). Between that and John and Bast’s aim with a gun, they managed to reverse their situation and actually gain enough advantage to get out before the others figured out why their instructions were suddenly wrong.

They sped up towards London, and once there the sleuth (who, despite Jim’s dearest hopes, was still whole) proposed to split up. “You two can just keep running, and Jim, I know I can count on you to be random enough not to be caught again. John and I will take care of this new player. We’ll send you a text when it’s done,” he said.

“You think you can do this better than us?” Jim retorted angrily.  

“Yes,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. “Now, off you go.”

Moriarty was ready to tear him a new one, but John rolled his eyes at the two bickering and intervened, “Trust me, Jim. We want to help. And if we fail, well, at least you’ll still have Seb to protect you.”

“Oh, Johnny,” Jim cooed. “You know I do trust you with my life, and it’s so sweet of you wanting to save me. But if that’s the plan, can’t you and Bast switch?”

“No,” the doctor said firmly.

“But whyyyy?” Moriarty whined.

“Because he’s much more committed to keeping you alive than I am. I’m advising you for the best,” John said firmly. “Now, off you go, before our stalling lets these men catch up with us.”

 “Ouch.” Jim said that out loud. Damn, this hurt worse than his captors.

“They have a point, boss. Let’s keep moving,” Sebastian pleaded.

“Why save me only to gang up on me?” Moriarty lamented, “Oh, never mind. Do whatever you want, but don’t come apologising afterwards. At least, remember to follow your instinct if you’re really doing this!”

The others nodded, and the two couples parted.

The next words out of Sherlock’s mouth shocked John. “Turn your phone off.” He did the same. 

“But…that’s our only advantage!” he blurted out. 

  “When you rely on that, you’re not acting. You’re reacting to the information it gives, exactly like any other player. This makes you predictable in turn. If we need to win this round, we need to make them react to _us_. I hate to say so, but Jim had a point,” the detective said, managing to say ‘you idiot’ only with his eyes, though it was still clearly felt.

John sighed, but obeyed. “So, where to?”

“Well, who started this whole mess? It might be someone on his closest entourage, true, but given how easily such a pompous ass somehow swayed everyone, it wouldn’t surprise me if our prime minister had access to ‘reserved information’ personally,” the consulting detective pointed out, shrugging.

“Oh. So we just need to take down the Prime Minister. Easy peasy,” the doctor remarked. “Good to know.”

“Just follow me,” the sleuth huffed, tugging his wrist.

And John did, because Dyaus help him, he would follow this man to hell if asked. The world was ending anyway. What did it matter if he was branded a terrorist? He might have considered their prime minister a smart politician, sure. But doing nothing and letting the man become a God…well, he didn’t trust the man to rule the world without it devolving into a dystopia. Frankly, the very concept of a single God of causality, no matter how much he personally benefited from the deity, was worrying.

They didn’t go straight to the politician, despite time being a pressing matter. They wandered, the doctor always looking over his shoulder. Damn but he’d grown used to the blog, and now not being able to rely on it, he was feeling on edge.

Any policeman they saw made John shudder, expecting them to try and arrest him. But none seemed to pay them any attention. Hours went by, and he started to relax.

Obviously, that was when they were caught by surprise and captured. Fuck. He’d told Sherlock that foregoing the blogs was a bad idea. It seemed as if the detective wasn’t too afraid, though. “You haven’t killed us on sight,” he remarked quietly.

John wanted to growl, “Don’t give them ideas!” but he refrained. Mostly, he was calculating if he could turn himself into a human shield, ultimately useless as it would have been. His friend, even if he could be royally dumb, was still a genius, and John wouldn’t stand still and watch him die.         

“The Prime Minister said he wants to talk to you first,” one of the men holding them said.

John was handed a phone. Apparently, what the man wanted to do wasn’t talk, but gloat.

“You’re so ridiculous. Attempting to play the game, without realising that you’re nothing more than guinea pigs for me to play with. Experiments on how well I can direct you, even before becoming a proper God,” the politician sneered.

“As a medical professional, I heartily recommend you see a cranioproctologist as soon as possible,” he huffed. At a look from Sherlock, he added, “I have a friend here that wants to talk to you, for some reason. I’m handing it over.” He didn’t wait to hear an answer.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes. I am well aware that you’re able to see our blogs, and that my hope to thwart your ability was vain. You have the best chances to become God, no doubt. But I’m wondering what would happen if all God candidates died. Would the universe be destroyed? What do you think?”

“Do you really think someone would be able to take me out, knowing I am aware of all your plans?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re aware of the current players’ plans. But there are two facts that you don’t know. One, not all people that have left the game have left this world, too, despite Dyaus’ original dispositions. Two, John, who’s here with me, is extremely likable. You watch over your current competitors, but if a number of clever, vengeful former blog holders planned to take you out for murdering him…how much do you trust your regular security, I wonder?”

“What you’re saying is impossible,” the Prime Minister snapped.

“Impossible? Or highly improbable? Will you bet the continued existence of both you and the universe on that certainty of yours?”

“I’ll need proof,” Mycroft ordered.

“Obviously.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Mirai Nikki had Deus (ex machina). Deus/Iuppiter (Iove pater contracted) in Latin, Zeus patèr/Theos in ancient Greek come from the same Indoeuropean radical (*Dyeus) that generated in the Indian Veda Dyaus Pita. Since John met him in Afghanistan I went for the Dyaus spelling.


End file.
